

ilA ^ Nr 

: 0 ^ . 


« •?» .■^* v“ 


> (.X- ^ 

o a“ ^ 

^ # c?:. ^ 


r 

^,0 ^OwO** 

''^ ^'•ILL''' &:» v^’ <■' "’^. 



o o' 


0 N c . ^ ^ a\ ' « V I « 

^ ^'P i-Jr 



^ *»■ 



, A "Kp ^ ^ ^ ^• 

\r ''' -i- A ’ 

O ^ cfv ^ X P-0 Ci_ V 

' ^ ^ t 



<i^ ^ 

^ '0. 1-* jO' 

* - o„ . 0 ^ 

-f ^ (V^ 

: "fco' f- 


\ o 


° k'^'- '* 

* ,, ko’ ,<!.^’ " 




/I ' 

/^ o 

V ‘s 
\ . 



4 

o 

2. . 


o 





°t. * 3 N 0 ■ 





^ c\^ . 

* ® ' ^ \ •> ^ I ''^ * 3 N O 


-'X\ \ ' TV » 


G°' 

>r 



<P 1^ 


O' 



r'*-^ 

y}.' , ' ' • » '^o ' ,o'^ c “ ^ ‘ « 

^ O ^>/y?>^ -1 ^ (j ^ 

■'oo'* ! 


0 

0 ^ ^ 


\0°x. 





■% i ^ ^ 


,0^3^/V ’ ' ' '* 

A ^ jmm^ . av o 



O 

-oo^ 

0- * 







o 



^ ’^'A,VvC:^s' > VV <#• 

y « Q . Ct' ^ 

v'^ *'"W' 

'• '% / ' ^ 

V -a J^V^rW//A ^ vr^ ^ 


<p \\ 





-v 





, 0 X c , 

0° • 


a"^ 



V 1 B 0 1, X ■* ^0' 


0 N C 


xO°x. 


,3*' ^0’ 



<3“^ 


o'^ s3’*3,, '^. 


A'^^' ° 









i . 










I ' 














r-* — «*.: 


V '■ 


• ♦■ 



^ 


/. 


f 


.» 





’• / 




• ^ 


a ST ^.l < •'. 

■; ■<.' 'i 

' ^ • , >*:, v" 



.0 


I •T'. 


‘ iS* 


•i • 


y * 


/. . 




• • 


. *• 


i 




^ '• 






Ve- 


/'* 


tel' 


» 

r- 


I * 




.< 1 * 




•- 1 


Jc 


* • tV ,JJ /- -v 

-. !■ V 'i • 

■■ 


^ » 





j • 




•• 

.r 




. '<•» 


"1* 

4 --^' • . 


^ 4 • 


• • •• 


“. i 


1 




'V 


'?-■:* • 


^1 


/w. 


#» * 




:-m 




* • 


• ’j' 


- 26 ^' 

•• . JC. - 


p «* 


T> » 


* I' 


L< 


r - 


~ ■ * 



. 0 ^* • 


• ^ 


r i 


' t» 




j » 


fy^.- 


« • 




• ■ t 



iTV*. :*’ .. 

i?w. '• . 




t 

f 




■ I > 






TliK SISTKKS ifClIOOL. — PAGE 111 


I 





THE 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS: 

A TALE, 

lllustratih trf |rislj fife 


IN THB 

UNITED STATES. 


BT 

MRS. J. SADLIER. 

Vt 

4 

ACTHOR OF “ SEW LIGHTS ; OR, LIFE IN GALWAY,” “ WILLY BDRSK,” “ ALIOI . ^ 

RIORDAN,” ETC. 



N E W Y 0 R k : 

D. & J. SADLTER & CO., 164 YILLTAM STREET, 

BOSTON : 128 FEOEHAL STREET. 

MONTREAL I COR. OF NOTRE PAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER ST’S. 

1858 . . 

I ^ 

i 

. > • . 






I 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the yenrlSSS, by 
P. & J, SAPLiER & CO,, 

til the Clerx's Ofiice of the District Court for the Southern District of New YoA. 


% 


N, B. — The^AuU.or userves to herself the right of Republication of Itiis work in Gront Britais 
and Ireland. 


■ A 




K. F. Ripi.ky, Stereotyper, 22 Frankfort Street. 


in tiji Sihranrif 


OF 


MY FATHER AND MOTHER, 


WHOSE TEACHINGS AND EXAMPLE 


WERE A RICH INHERITANCE TO THEIR CHILDREN. 


THEY ARE WITH THE PAST; 


THEY REST IN PEACE; 


THEY HAVE JOINED THEIR KINDRED DUST 


IN HOLY IRELAND, 


BUT THEIR MEMORY IS GREEN AND FRESH IN MY HEART 


AND TO THAT EVER-LIVING REMEMBRANCE, 


I DEDICATE THIS WORK 


1 


- y 





I 


W 







r 






- • •« 




r- 





I 




I 


< • 








\ 


I 


» 


4 


t 


<1 







V 

• •' 


\ ' 



4 




« 





- \ 

4 


\ 


r 

i 


. M 


V 


> 




V 


f 


3 


/ 


f 







f 











f 


r 


' «» 


V* 







t. 


* ' & C 

m 


> 




> 


r 






« 









< 


t 





I 


# 

I 


4 


«» 


r 

r 







* 


f 


» 


V 



id 



K 


A 


PREFACE. 



EADER, there is a moral contained in 
this story, and you will not read far till 
you find it out. It relates to a subject' 
of all others the most important, and, if 
read with that attention which men 
usually give to momentous affliirs, it 
cannot fail to make a salutary impres- 
sion. The world is, and I believe has 
ever been, divided into two great classes, 
believers and unbelievers : the children 
of the one true Church, and the children of the world. 
It is needless jo^y that all rny writing s a re do dioate d 
to the one”grand object; the illustration of our holy 
f ajtK,~'byln^rL^^ or stories. The drama of 
these in general, and of this one in particular^ is 
taken from every day life. The world around us is 
full of Blokes and Flanagans. I have merely 


vi 


PREFACE. 


grouped them so as to form a little spliere of action 
for the carrying out of my plan. I cmld easily 
have written a more attractive story; I could have 
interspersed it with romantic incidents, and ‘‘ liair- 
’breadth scapes by flood and field,” but my object 
was to make the whole as natural and as familiar 
as possible. I do not profess to write novels — I 
cannot alford to waste time pandering merely to 
the imagination, or fostering that maudlin senti- 
mentality, which is the ruin of our youth both male 
and female. No conscientious Catholic ean write 
a story wherein the interest depends on the work- 
ings of passion. One who has Eternity ever in 
view, cannot write mere love-tales ; but simple, 
practical stories embodying grave truths, will be 
read by many, who would not read pious hooks. 
Such, then, is the Blokes and Flanagans^ which, 
as most of my readers are probably aware, has 
recently appeared in the American Celt. It has 
since undergone a careful revision, and is now 
pretty well pui’ged of the typographical errors, 
unavoidable in a newspaper publication. It is 
gratifying to myself to know that the class for 
whom I intended the work, are in general well 
pleased with it. Such being the case, I can confi- 
dently send it forth with all its imperfections on its 
head, trusting that it may be made an instrument 
of good. 

Montreal, August, 1855 . 


CONTENTS. 

^ 


Chapfer 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XL 

XII. 

xin. 

XIV. 


PREFACE 

THE DRAMATIS PERSONS 

THE TWO SCHOOLS 

ST. PATRICK'S DAY — THE PREMIUM • . • . 
THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT . . . . 

ST. Peter’s school — a visit from the priest . 

A FRIEND IN NEED — A GENTLE REPRIMAND . 

THE SISTERS^ SCHOOL — A GLANCE INTO TIM FLANAGAN^S 
household 

THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL — UNCT.E TIM'S 

( 

PR A OTTO AT. JOKES AND OTHER MATTERS 
THE SOIREE — THE IRISH JIG — FILIAL ADMONITIONS 

TERSUS PARENTAL 

A FAMILY PARTY AT TIM FLANAGAN’s .... 
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP . . . . 

A MARRIAGE AND THE PROSPECT OF ANOTHER 
FILIAL LOVE Ai^IONGST THE DILLONS — A:^ IRISH FUNERAL 
GREAT, DOINGS AT TIM FLANAGAN ’s — MR. HENRY T. BLAKE 
BECOMES A PROMINENT INDIVIDUAL 


Page 

5 

9 

22 
38 
* 55 
72 
90 

107 

124 

142 

160 

177 

195 

215 

232 


8 


CONTENTS 


XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION TURNS UP AGAIN — RETRIBUTIVE 

JUSTICE 249 

THE BROKEN HEART — MRS. HENRY T. BLAKE ON 

BAPTISM 2G5 

ZACHARY THOMSON GAINS HIS POINT — REVELATIONS 
OP A DELICATE NATURE — ELIZa’s LITTLE TRIALS 
AND HOW SHE SURMOUNTED THEM .... 285 

THE DINNER PARTY — THE MISFORTUNE OP HAVING A 

WEAK STOMACH 300 

THE DOUBLE ORDINATION — A HAPPY DEATH — AN 

UNSEASONABLE VISIT . . ‘ . . . . 317 

MR. PEARSON'S IDEA OF CONSCIENCE— TOM RBILLY’s 
SECRET — A RECONCILIATION — MIKE SHERIDAN ’ S 

MARRIAGE 335 

EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE — MATTERS OF GENERAL IMPORT 355 
CONCLUSION , , .372 



THE BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER I. 





THE DRAMATIS PERSON.®. 


lYE AND TWENTY years ago, when 
our story opens, even the great city of 
New York was more staid and sober than 
it now is. It was simply a thriving com- 
mercial city, “ well to do in the world,” and 
not much ahead of its sister cities. Its 
ways were quiet and old-fashioned compared 
with what they are now. But times are 
changed since then; the age of progress is 
hurrying all things onward with a rapidity 
that makes one’s head dizzy. It is unfash- 
ionable now to speak of the past with regret, 
and any one who has the hardihood to do so is set down as 
‘‘behind the age.” For my part I am quite willing to be 
“behind the age,” for “the age” goes much too fast for 


li BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 

my liking, and my sympathies are more with the past 
than the present. But this is not the question; I was 
going to tell a story of New York, twenty-five years ago, 
and here I am, making comparisons which many of my 
younger readers may deem invidious. And yet tlie 
digression, if it be one, is very natural, and perhaps 
necessary, as the times to which I refer are precisely 
those of which I mean to write. 

About twenty-five years ago, then, before Nativism had 
developed itself into Know Nothingism, there lived in 
Chapel street (now West Broadway), New York, a 
worthy Irishman of the name of Flanagan, a real home- 
spun Tipperary man, hot-blooded, blustering, and loud 
"spoken, yet kind and generous and true-hearted. A 
real unmistakeable Milesian, reminding one of poor 
Wolfe’s description of his “ own friend — ” 

“So bold and frank his bearing, boy, 

Should you meet him onward faring, boy, 

In Lapland’s snow, 

‘ Or Chili’s glow, ^ 

You’d say, what news from Erin, boy?” 

He had left his native land immediately after his mar- 
riage, and the young bride, who then for the first time 
quitted her father’s home by the silvery Suir, had since 
become a wise and prudent matron, the mother of three 
sons and two daughters — all “ natives ” — ay ! every one 
of them. Timothy — or as he was more generally called 

Tim Flanagan, followed the trade of a leather-dresser, 
and had gained, by his persevering industry, a position of 
ease and comfort. His wife was a quiet, home-loving 
woman, a neat, tidy housewife, a careful and affectionate 
mother, and, to crown all, a simple, sincere Christian — an 
[rishworiian of the good old times. Neither Tim nor his 


the dramatis persons. 


11 


wife was much versed in controversy; they knew little, 
and cared less, about the various new-fangled systems of 
religion; they were good, old fashioned Catholics, as their 
fathers were before them, and their chief ambition was to 
bring up their children in the same faith. As for the 
children themselves, they were just what might be expect- 
ed from such parents; healthy andblooiming as mountain 
flowers, cheerful, docile, and obedient. Yarious shades of 
character were, of course, discernible amongst them, but 
these were, more or less, common to all. There was 
Edward, or Ned, a fine boy of twelve, Thomas and John, 
aged ten and eight, and two little girls, Ellen and Susan, 
the one between five and six, and the other four. Susy 
was, as might be expected, the pet of the family; and as 
tiiere seemed ho likelihood of any further increase, her 
dominion became every day more confirmed, a fact of 
which the little damsel seemed fully cognizant. Take 
them altogether, there was not in New York city a hap- 
pier family, or one more free from guile. Religion was^, 
th^sun of their solar system, giving life and warmth to^|k 
themselves and all around them. If either Tim or Nellyj^^ 
had their failings — and who has not ? — they were so few, 
and so little obtruded on their neighbors, that they were 
both respected and beloved by all who knew them. 

Timothy Flanagan had a sister some years older than 
himself, the wMfe of a Galway man, named Miles Blake, 
who kept a provision store in the next block. The Blakfes 
were a good sort of peoplo in their way, but not by any 
means so good as the Flanagans. Both husband and wife 
were more anxious for making money than anything else; 
and though they professed to be good Catholics, and were 
so considered by many people, yet religion was, with them, 
only a secondary object — all very well in its place, so 


12 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 




that it did not engross too much time or attention. 
“ Business ! business was the grand affair with the 
Blake family— at least the elders of the house. Other- 
wise, they were, as I have said, a worthy couple, strictly 
honest in their dealings, kind and affectionate between 
themselves, and, with all their closeness in money matters, 
still ready and willing to spare something to those who 
really stood in need of it. Miles Blake was never behind 
any of his neighbors when a collection was taken up, 
especially if it were fOr the building or repairii»g of a 
church, for Miles thought that churches ought to be built 
and repaired, ay, and the priest decently supported. But 
further than that Miles did not care to go. Schools, or 
convents, or the like, were, in his opinion, by no means 
necessary : people could get on without the convents, 
“ though he didn't deny but they did a great deal of good,” 
and as for Catholic schools, he did not see what the 
people wanted with them, when the State had provided 
good schooling for their children, free of all expense. 'Yet 
still, Miles was always on pretty good terms with^his 
priest, and complied, once a year or so, with his religious 
duties, deeming that quite sufficient. Of several children 
who had been born to them. Miles Blake and his wife had 
but tw'o remaining ; one a boy, of fourteen or fifteen, and 
the other a girl, of twelve. The latter wms so pale and 
delicate looking that it seemed as though she were destin- 


ed to follow her brothers and sisters to an early grave. 
Perhaps it were better she had, but such an idea never 
occurred to her doting parents, who loved their children 
“ not wisely, but too w'ell.” 

The two families of Blake and Planagan lived on the 
most friendly and familiar footing, and if a cloud did at 
times overshadow the brightness of their intercourse, as 


THE DRAMATIS PERSON.®. 


13 


clouds will overshadow all things human — it was soon 
dispelled, either by some little dextrous manoeuvre on 
the part of good Mrs. Flanagan, or, perhaps, an act of 
contrition from Tim or Miles, or wlioever might be the 
offending party. Thus had things gone on for years and 
years, ever since Tim brought out his pretty young wife, 
on the special advice and invitation of Mrs. Blake and 
her husband, who had made the grand voyage some ten 
years before. So now that 1 have brought forward the 
leading cliaraeters of my story, and given tlie reader an 
idea of their distinctive features, I will leave them to 
speak and act for themselves. 

The children of the two families had been brought up 
together, as one might say, and were almost like brothers 
and sisters all round. Eliza Blake, being, from her 
infancy, of a frail and delicate constitution, was regarded 
alike by brothers and cousins, with a sort of pitying ten- 
derness; her little whims were all humored, and her wishes, 
in most cases, anticipated ; her faults were not many, and, 
such as they were, might be chiefly ascribed to the over- 
indulgence of all around her. She was, by nature, mild, 
gentle and affectionate, but sickness had made her some- 
what querulous, and the extreme fondness of parents and 
friends made her over-exacting; still she was a very good 
little girl, and as for prudence and discretion, they seemed 
to have been born with her, or, at least, developed them- 
selves in her much earlier than they usually do in children. 
She wms wiiat is called “an old fashioned little girl,” and 
was, moreover, the oracle of the family, as a petted child 
too often is. Harry, the brother, wms a fine healthy boy, 
full of fun and frolic ; talented beyond most boys of his 
age, but exceedingly averse to study. Generous and high- 
spirited to a fault, he wms easily offended, and just as 



u 


B LAKES AND FLAXAOANS. 


easily pacified, so that, though constantly engaged in some 
boyish quarrel, he was still a general favorite amongst his 
companions. Harry was a particular favorite with his 
uncle Flanagan, probably because he was an exact coun- 
terpart of himself. The neighbors used to say that Tim 
Flanagan hadn’t a child of his own so like him as Harry 
Blake — “ and he’s no disgrace to him, either ; for he’s a 
fine likely boy, and a good-hearted fellow, with all his 
wildness.” 

This “ wildness ” vvas considered the more excusable, as 
it generally manifested itself in quarrels with his school- 
mates on the score of religion. There was scarcely a day 
that Harry Blake did not get into some “ scrape,” defend- 
ing his religion. His father was well pleased to hear of 
these tilting matches, in which Harry was almost sure to 
come off victorious ; he gloried in his son’s “ mettle,” and 
proudly prognosticated that he would sooner or later 
“cram the truth down their throats — that he would; he’d 
teach them to vilify his religion, and blacken poor old 
Ireland!” , ' 

And why was it that Tim Flanagan’s boys, sturdy and 
robust as they were, and brought up by a mother so good 
and pious, were never seen or heard fighting for their 
religion ? Simply because they were not exposed to hear 
it reviled or calumniated. True to his character and 
principles, honest Tim Flanagan never sent one of his 
children to a Ward school. His motto was: “Shun 
danger wherever you see it,” and, in pursuanc e of that 
prudent precept, be always declared that a child o f his 
should never set foot in a Protestant school, with his con-' 
sent. “ At least, while Im over them,” he would addT 
“ If they choose to run the risk, any of them, when I’m 
gone, they may do it, of course, but not till then.” His 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 


15 


wife smiled and said nothing, but it was well known that, 
with all her mildness, she was, on this point, to the full 
as inflexible as her husband. 

Many and many a time did Miles and Tim discuss the 
question ; sometimes they talked very loud, and grew very 
hot upon it, but still matters remained as they were : 
Miles sent his boy and girl to the Ward school, and the 
young Flanagans daily went their way to the Catholic 
Schools attached to St. Peter’s Church. 

St. Peter’s School had two departments, one for boys, 
the other for girls — the former taught by a certain Mr. 
Lanigan, a fine specimen of the good old Catholic 
teacher; the latter under the direction of the Sisters of 
Charity, and a flourishing school they had of it. There 
were but few Catholic scliools in the city, perhaps not 
more than two or three, and St. Peter’s was about the 
largest. And a very good school it was. Many and . 
many a valued citizen did it bring up for the State, and not 
a-few of the boys who “sat at the feet” of worthy Mr. 
Lanigan have since attained a good position in society by 
their industry and good conduct, not to speak of the sound 
business education there received. 

The school question was always a bone of contention 
between Tim and Miles, but, as I have already observed, 
neither could succeed in convincing the other, although 
Miles had been known to admit, after some of these de- 
bates, that, “ sure ’ enough, Tim came pretty hard on 
him.” 

Sometimes these discussious.took place in presence of 
the children, and though, at first, they seemed to pay but 
little attention to the matter, it gradually sank into their 
minds, and was often discussed amongst themselves when ^ 
their parents were not present. Eliza Blake was the first 


'\ 


'16 B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

to adopt her uncle’s views, as far as a girl of her age 
could adopt them, but when she ventured, for the first 
time, to tell her father that she would much rather go to 
the Sisters’ School with her little cousins, he cut her 
short at once, and told her, with unusual sternness not to 
think of such a thing. “ The school you’re at is a very' 
good one, Eliza, and as long as your mother and myself 
are pleased with it, yoih need not object. You would not 
have been as far on as you are now, take my word for it, 
if you had been at the Sisters’ School. Keep quiet now, 
Lizzy, and don’t be getting your uncle Tim’s notions into 
youiji head. Let me hear no more of it, or I’ll not be 
pleased with you.” 

Eor some years Mrs. Blake did not much care where 
the children were sent to school, so long as they were sent, 
but she had no fancy for seeing Harry come home day 
after day with some unsightly bruise on his face, a black 
eye, a swelled- lip, or a bloody nose. She had a womanly 
dislike for “fighting,” and would have been better pleased * 
to see her boy less of a pugilist, and more of a scholar. 

“ Kow Miles, what on earth is the use of all, this squab- 
bling and fighting ?” she said one day to her husband, 
after laying some sticking-plaster on a cut over Harry’s 
eye-brow. “It’s a mercy that the boy isn't killed long 
' ago — that’s what it is, and I wonder at a sensible man like 
you to encourage him in these wild pranks.” 

“Why, man alive, woman, what would you have me 
do ?” retorted Miles. “You wouldn’t have me tell 
Harry to run away from the young vagabonds — would 
you ? Isn’t it all on account of his religion that they’re 
down on him, and I’m sure you wouldn’t wish a son of 
yours or mine to give in to a parcel of young scamps like 
them,' when they get a-running down his religion ?” 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Well, no, Miles, I would not,” said Mary hesitatingly, 
** but see — see how the Flanagan boys don’t get black 
eyes or bloody noses, as Harry does ?” 

“ Humph !” said Miles, “ to be sure they don’t, and 
why would they ? haven’t they it all their own way there ? 
They haven’t to stand up for their religion, like poor Harry.” 

“ And maybe they’re better off, after all. I’m sure it 
saves their mother many a fright that my lad gives we.” 

“ Ay, but then, Mary, you must own that it’s worth 
some trouble to have Harry learn to defend his faith. 
The Flanagans will grow up regular nincompoops — not a 
word in their heads, and no more spunk in them than* so 
many kittens. I like to see a fellow ready with a word 
or a blow to keep up his religion, and I tell you once for 
all that there’s no place so good as a Protestant school, 
for a Catholic boy to learn pluck 

“ Well, well, Miles, you know best,” was the submissive 
answer. “What pleases you, pleases me. Come here, 
and empty this bag of potatoes — I want the bag for some- 
thing else.” v 

' Before the potatoes were all turned out, in came Tim 
Flanagan, his fine open countenance brimful of sly humor, 
though he thought proper to affect a grave demeanor. 
“ Good luck to the work,” said he, “ for I see you’re hand- 
ling the murphies, there — and fine specimens they are, too, 
considering that they didn’t grow in Ireland. What’s 
gone wrong with Harry this morning ?” 

“ Oh ! not much, Tim, not much,” said Miles, rubbing 
the dust leisurely off his hands; “he’s been at his old 
trade, that’s all, cramming the lies down some of the 
Yankee boys’ throats, and, as there was three or four of 
them on him at once, he got a little scratch of a cut ovei 
his eye. But it’s not worth a pin.’^ 


18 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Poll I poll ! and is that all cried Tim, why, the 
Johnson boys and the Herricks, and all of them, are mak- 
ing a great brag of how they gave Harry Blake a good 
trouncing this morning, and one, they think, that he’ll not 
get over for a while.” 

‘‘They lie, the young scoundrels — they lie,” cried Miles 
in a towering passion. “ They did their best, the coward- 
ly set — they did their best, but that wasn’t much. Harry 
was more than a match for the whole half-dozen.” 

“ Well I that same’s a comfort, anyhow,” put in Tim, 
with his roguish smile. “ He’ll be a first-rate buffer one 
of these days — ay, faith ! neither Dan Donelly nor Deaf 
Burke could hold a candle to him,, if he goes on at this 
rate.” 

“ Ay I you’re making your game of me now,” said 
Miles, somewhat cooled down, “ but so long as the boy 
fights for his religion and the honor of old Ireland, he 
may fight away and welcome. He wouldn’t be my son if 
he didn’t.” 

“ Ay, there’s the rub,” said Tim, earnestly, “ it’s all 
very well while he fights for his religion, but, just keep 
him at the same school for three or four years longer, .and 
you’ll see he’ll be readier to fight against 

This raised Miles’s ire again. “ Why, then, by this and 
by that, Tim Flanagan, but you’re enough to set a man 
crazy. It’s well come up with you to talk of my son 
turning Protestant — did you ever know a turn-coat in the 
family — tell me that now ?” 

“What matter whether I did or not,” retorted Tim, 
“ I tell you pat and plain, as I often told you before, that 
you’re thrusting your two fine children — and that’s what 
they are, God knows ! into the very jaws of perdition. I 
don’t want any argument about it, for I know it’s no use 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


19 


arguing with you, but I appeal to Mary, there, if I’m not 
right.” 

“Well, as you put the question to me,” replied his 
sister, “ I can’t deny but I’d twice rather see Harry and 
Eliza going to St. Peter’s School with your youngsters. 
It seems unnatural-like to be sending them to a Protes- 
tant school.” 

“Why, bad- manners to you, Mary, sure there’s no 
Protestant schools here — they’re” 

“ Ay I what are they, Miles ? — do tell us I” said Tim, 
coaxingly. 

“ What are they, is it ?” said Miles, sonjewhat puzzled 
by this home-thrust ; “ why, they’re not for any religion 
in particular — they’re for all religions, and you both know 
that as well'as I do.” 

“ Begging your pardon,” returned Tim, very coolly, 
“ they’re for no religion — that’s what they’re for.” 

“ Why, what do you mean by that'?” 

“ I just mean what I say — a school that’s for all reli- 
gions, as you say, is, in fact, for no religion, because no 
particular religion can be taught without giving offence to 
some parties concerned.” 

“ Well, and that’s just what I want,” said Miles, exul- 
tingly, “ school is not the place to learn religion, let the 
parents teach that at home, and the priest in church.” 

“Well, that does seem right enough, Tim, after all,” 
said Mary, “ there, you see, Harry and Eliza go to cate- 
chism every Sunday morning, and I’m sure I do all I can, 
and their father in like manner, to make them good 
Catholics.” 

“All right, Mary, all right, as far as it goes, but do 
all Catholic parents do the same ? do you think all the 
Catholic children attending Ward Schools are sent regu- 


20 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


larly to catechism on Sunday ? or do they all get as good 
teachings at home, and see as good example before them 
as yours do ? and’^ 

“ Now, Tim,” said Miles, suddenly breaking in, “ the 
short and\he long of it is, my children are as far advanc- 
ed in their learning as any other boy and girl we know of 
the same age, and as for religion, they’re not a whit be- 
hind anybody else’s children. If it goes to that, there’s 
not a boy in the city readier to stand up for his religion 
than my Harry, and he’d never have been so courageous, 
or so staunch, if he had been at a school where there was 
no Protestants.” 

Then how did you and I get to love our religion so 
well ? I’m sure we didn’t either of us go to a Protestant or 
an infidel school. Poor old Master Finigan that taught 
me all I know, was as strict a Catholic as any in the 
parish, and, for the matter of that, it’s few Protestants we 
had in the same parish ” 

“ And we hadn’t one — not one,” said Miles, “ there 
wasn’t one within miles of us.” 

“ Yery good, and yet you see you’re not a bit colder or 
more careless about your religion than if you had been 
fighting for it every day of your life.” 

“ Well, now, Tim, there’s no use in talking — things are 
different here, as I often told you before, and as long as I 
see the children getting on well with their education, and 
still remaining good Catholics, I’m willing to send them 
to the Ward School, because I’d be very ungrateful if I 
didn’t, when the State is so good and so kind as to 
educate our children without meddling with their religion. 
What do you say, Mary ?” But Mary was busily en- 
gaged, preparing some Indian corn for the pot, and had no 
mind to “ bother herself” with such debates. “ Just talk 


THE DRAMATIS P E R S 0 N iB . 


21 


it out, yourselves, said she, “ you’re the best judges ; as 
for me, I don’t know much about it. You’ve been argu- 
ing about schools these five years, and I don’t see that it 
makes any difference. If I were ye, I’d give it up, for it 
only makes dissensions between you.” So she went on 
with her cooking, compared with which the school-ques- 
tion sank into nothing in her eyes. 

“ Well, good-bye,” said Tim, rising and taking his hat, 
“ I wish you both a good appetite for your dinner, and a 
better knowledge of what is good for your children. I 
hope you’ll never have reason to regret your blindness.” 

* When he got home, he could not' help expressing his 
indignation : “ I declare, Nelly, them people below are 
enough to vex a saint. Only think, if Miles isn’t as proud 
as a peacock, because Harry gets the better of the 
Yankee boys.” 

“ Well, Tim dear, I wouldn’t be bothering my brains 
arguing with him — he’ll find out his mistake some of these 
days.” 

‘‘Yes, but isn’t it provoking to see a sensible man, like 
him, acting so foolishly ? By my word, I think he’s 
bewitched. And then, Mary too. I know she’s at 
bottom, as much against sending the children to the Ward 
School as you or I, but she hasn’t the pluck in her to say 
so. She’s so submissive, and so willing to leave it all in 
Miles’s hands, just as if she hadn’t as good a right to the 
children as he has ! They’re a temptation to me — I vow 
to God they are I” 

“Well ! well ! Tim, the worst will be their own ; as 
for Miles, you often say yourself that you can make noth- 
ing of him,” and, she added with an arch smile, “ I’m sure 
you’re not the man to blame a wife for being submissive, 
eh, Tim ? Sit over, now, and take your dinner.” 


22 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 




CHAPTER II. 

THE TWO SCHOOLS. 

Next mornicg when Harry Blake came down stairs, “ 
ready for school, his mother, who ms busily engaged pre- 
paring breakfast, could not help expressing her vexation 
at sight of the patch which disfigured his handsome face. 

“ Well, now, isn’t it too bad — it’s a downright shame, 
so it is, to see . you with that ugly patch over your eye I 
I wish to goo(Juess, Harry, that you’d try and keep out 
of these scrapes ; what on earth tempts you to go a-fight- 
ing as you do ?” 

“ Why, religion, mother, to be sure — don’t every one 
know that ?” and Harry laughed in a way that, somehow, 
his mother didn’t like. 

“ Oh I religion !” said she, “that’s the old story, and 
it goes down very well with your father, but it doesn’t 
altogether satisfy me. Does it never come into your head 
that you’d show more respect for religion by keeping out 
of brawls, and trying to ‘ bear patiently with the trouble- 
some,’ which, you know, is one of the eight beatitudes — 
eh, Harry ?” 

“Nonsense, mother, what have I to^ do with ‘beati- 
tudes ?’ — a pretty thing it would be for a fellow like me 
to hear such coons making their game of papists, and 


THE TWO SCHOOLS. 23 

talking about ‘ the dirty Irish,’ and looking at me all the 
time, as much as to say — you’re one of them. I’ll be 
hanged if I stand it.” 

“ Why, Harry,” said the mother, “ one would almost 
think you were ashamed of having Irish blood in your 
veins ! I declare you talk very strangely at times I” 

Harry only laughed, and asked if the breakfast were 
near ready. “ There’s Eliza,” said he, “ I guess she slept 
too long this morning, and now she’s spending so much 
time at her prayers that she’s sure to be late. I wish 
she’d cut them short for once !” 

“ It would be well for you,” said his mother, sharply, 
“ if you spent a little more time at your prayers — if you 
did, you wouldn’t be so' ready to quarrel with your school- 
mates.” 

“ Oh ! never mind-, mother, never mind. I’ll get reli- 
gion some of these days, and leave off my wild tricks. 
Are those cakes ready yet ? do make haste, or I shall be 
late for school ! Hillo ! here comes Lizzy. So you have 
got through with your prayers at last. Ain’t you a pretty 
girl to be praying there for ’most half an hour, and it so 
near school-time ? I guess you’ll catch it this morning.”' 

“ And what if I do?” returned his sister, “you know 
Father Power tells us not to neglect our morning or even- 
ing prayers on any account. I learned my lessons yester- 
day evening, and I’m all ready for school now, only just 
to get my breakfast. Can we have it now, mother ?” 

“Yes, my dear, I’m just a-going to put it on the table. 
I’m well pleased to see that you’re particular about saying 
your prayers. As for Harry, I don’t know what to say 
to him. I’m afraid that school is making a lad of 
him I” 

“ Hush, mother, here’s father coming in.’^ And Harry 


24 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


began to place the chairs around the table with a great 
show of making himself useful. 

“Well, Harry said Miles, as he took his place at the 
table, “ how is the cut this morning ? do you feel it 
much V t 

“ Yes, father, it feels pretty sore, but it don^t amount 
to much. I guess I gave Sam Herrick the worth of it, 
and more, if it goes to that. If J didn’t give him his 
own, no confounded Yankee ever got it.” 

“ That’s right, Harry, that’s right — show them what 
Irish mettle is. Hold your plate for some of these hot 
cakes. What ails you, Eliza, that you look so pale this 
morning ?” 

This roused the mother’s anxious fears. “ Why, then, 
sure enough. Miles, she does look pale. I was in such a 
hurry getting the breakfast that I didn’t notice her. Are 
you well enough, Lizzy, dear ?” 

“ Oh, yes, mother, quite well— indeed I am,” and she 
smiled faintly ; “please, father, give me another of those 
buck-wheat cakes — there’s no fear of me being sick while 
I can cat so heartily,” and the affectionate child did force 
herself to eat some of the cakes, in order to deceive her 
kind parents as to the real state of her health. Miles 
and his wife exchanged glances, and the mother sighed 
deeply, but no more was said upon the-subject. 

When the young people were gone, Mary went out to 
her husband, who was tying up some parcels in the store. 

“ Now, I tell you what it is, Miles, they’re killing that 
child by inches.” 

“ How is that, Mary ? who do you mean ?” 

“ Why them teachers that she has. There they have 
her learning whole pages of books that’s of no earthly 
use to her, and she so delicate as she is, too. Sure it’s 


THE TWO SCHOOLS. 


25 


enoagh to bother cue’s brains to hear the poor child 
rhyming over the long cramp words that’s in them books. 
There she has her trigonometry lesson, and her geometry 
lesson, and her philosophy lesson, and her rhetoric lesson 
— whatever lessons they are, I’m sure I don’t know ; if I 
was listening for a year I couldn’t make head or tail of 
them ; and there she is, day after day, poring over them 
books till' the very flesh is worn off her bones.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh I Mary, it isn’t that that makes her so 
thin and pale — you know she’s been always sickly.” 

And that’s just the reason why she shouldn’t be made 
to study too hard. What good, I want to ^know, is in 
them lessons that I was speaking of with the hard names ?” 

“ Why, Mary, if we want Eliza to get a good educa- 
tion, we must let her learn such things. Sure everybody 
learns them here, and we can’t have our children behind 
others.” 

“Nonsense, Miles, I’d rather have them taught more 
of religion and less of them foolish ometries, or whatever 
they are. I wish they mayn’t be c?m7tries. I’m sure and 
certain they are, as far as Harry is concerned, for he’s 
every day getting more sturdy and resolute on our hands. 
Perhaps, after all, we’re doing what’s wrong in sending 
the children to that school — eh. Miles ?” 

Miles langed at the troubled, anxious, look of his wife, 
so different from her usual cheerfulness reflected from her 
mind. “ Why, Mary, what maggot has bit you this 
morning that you’re making such a fuss about schools ? 
Don’t you know, woman dear, that most of those same 
branches that you’re talking about are taught in the 
Catholic schools, and if they were ‘ deviltries,’ as you call 
them, the priests wouldn’t have them taught — so make 
your mind easy about that.” 


2 


26 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


But Mary could not make her mind easy ; her mater- 
nal anxiety was aroused with regard to Eliza’s healthy and 
she was about to make further remonstrance, when a cus- 
tomer coming in put an end to the conversation for that 
time, and sent Mary back to her kitchen. 

Let us now follow Harry Blake to school, just, to see 
how it fared with him on that particular morning. The 
teacher, Mr. Simpson, was a very smooth, sleek-faced man, 
with long, fair hair, carefully brushed back, so as to show 
off the intellectual conformation, of which Mr. Simpson 
was not a little vain. He had a pair of small grey eyes, 
that were continually glancing round from one object to 
another, in a queet, restless way, probably the effect of 
long years of “ watching the boys.” No one had ever 
seen Mr. Simpson in a shabby-looking coat, such as 
teachers are wont to wear in school-hours ; he was al- 
ways seen, like the Irishman at Donnybrook Fair, in 

“ A coat spick and span new, without e’er a speck,” 

— new, and smooth, and glossy as Mr. Simpson himself, 
head teacher of the Fifth Ward School, — a gentleman 
whose dexterity in “handling” the faith of young Papists 
was well-nigh equal to that of our friend Pat, of Donny- 
brook notoriety, in handling “his sprig of Shillelah.” This 
smooth-spoken gentleman had no particlar love for Harry 
Blake, who was, as his mother expressed it, far “ too sturdy 
and resolute” for the refined notions of Mr. Simpson, and 
gave that personage more trouble than all the other boys 
put together. But Mr. Simpson knew better than to 
make a display of his aversion — if aversion it could be 
called — indeed, it was quite contrary tp his priHciples to 
have an aversion for any Catholic boy; to thepi hefW.as 
even smoother and more oily than to uny ope <?l^io. 


THE TTVO SCHOOLS. 


27 


Accordingly, Mr. Simpson chose to take no notice of 
Harry’s entrance that morning, because the bell had rang 
some ten minutes before. So Harry stepped softly to his 
seat, much relieved, though still troubled with certain mis- 
givings as to the effect of his disfigured fiice, in connection 
with the combat of the previous evening. His next neigh- 
bor, Hugh Dillon, was also a Catholic, or rather the child 
of Catholic parents, but the boy had been going to the 
Common School ever since he was five years old, and now, 
at fourteen, he was a Catholic in name, nothing more. In 
fact, he began, of late, rather to take sides against Harry 
in his polemico-pugilistic campaigns, on the ground that 
fighting for religion was “too Irish-like,” and only fit for 
-“Paddies like Harry Blake!” This used to rouse Harry’s 
ire, and he would retort with “no more a Paddy than 
yourself. Wa’n’tl-born here as well as you ?” “Then 
what do you want, fighting for the Irish and their religion, 
if you a’n’t Irish yourself?” “Well, now, if you a’n’t a 
queer one! a’n’t your father and mother Irish and Catholic 
as well as mine?” “Why, yes, I guess they are, but that 
is no rule for me. I’m an American born, and, as for 
religion, I have as much right to choose for myself as any 
one else. If I were you I wouldn’t fight for the name of 
a country you never saw, or for any religion in particular; 
just wait till you choose one for yourself, as a free-born 
American ought to do.” So this was the precocious 
“native” who sat next to our friend, Harry, on the 
morning in question.'^ Talking was, of course, forbidden, 
but the two boys exchanged significant glances, and Hugh 
put his finger on his own brow, with a comical expression 
of mock sympathy, that brought the blood to Harry’s 
cheek. His sense of humiliation was nowi.se lessened by 
the suppressed titter which ran along the benches, and the 


28 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


■ furtive looks of derision and contempt meeting him on 
every side. To a high spirited, sensitive boy, like Harry, 
this \vas_ bad enough, but the worst of all was y<et to 
come. 

“Master Henry Blake!’’ said Mr. Simpson, from his 
place behind the desk, “come here, I want to speak with 
you.” 

Harry instantly obeyed. “May I ask how you came 
Dy that patch over your eye-brow?” He knew well 
enough, but thought it prudent to make a show of igno- 
rance. 

“It was Sam Herrick, sir, that gave me a blow of a 
stick.” 

“Master Herrick — come here, sir!” Master Herrick 
went accordingly. 

“How did you come to strike Master Blake with a 
stick? what sort of conduct is this?” 

“It was all his own fault, sir, I assure you. He would 
insist on it that I had insulted him because 1 happened 
to say that St. Peter was an old fisherman, for all papists 
make so much to do about him.” 

“Yes, and did you not say that the pope was anti- 
christ?” put in Harry; “you needn’t try to get out of 
it.” 

“Have patience, my good boy, let us hear him out,” 
said Mr. Simpson. “ Go on. Master Herrick.” 

“ And so, sir, he called me some ugly names, and finally 
gave me a push that sent me reeling against the wall ” — 

“Yes, but didn't you say that all the Irish were low, 
mean people, the meanest set in all the wor^d ?” And 
Harry unconsciously imitated Herrick’s peculiar accent to 
such perfection that the boys within hearing all laughed, 
to Sam’s great mortification. 


THE TWO, SCHOOLS. 


29 


** And what if I did — a’u’t it true what I said ? — you 
can’t deny it, do as you will.” 

Harry was about to make an angry response when the 
master interposed, and his tones were so mellifluous, so full 
of unction, that no angry passion could have withstood it. 

“ My good boys,” said he, “your are both wrong — yes, 
both wrong” (the boys looked at each other) — “in the 
school-room, and in the vicinity of the school-room, reli- 
gion is a forbidden theme; in fact, it is always wrong, and 
everywhere wrong, for boys to quarrel about religion, as 
religion is only for men — full-grown men. At your age, 
religion is wholly unnecessary — it will be time enougli for 
each of you to take your stand on that question when you 
have come to the age of maturity. The Great Creator 
of all things left man to his own free will, in order that 
he might choose a religion for himself, but he is not in a 
condition to choose until he reaches man’s estate. Behold 
now, my dear pupils, how silly a thing it is to fight about 
religion, before you can know what religion really is. 
Samuel Herrick, go to your seat, and. I trust I shall never 
again hear of you inveighing against any form of worship; 
even the Roman Church, though corrupt and far behind 
the age, has still some grains of the Gospel seed. She is 
not wholly idolatrous, I believe, but still j^rof esses to wor- 
ship the true God. Those who belong to her communion, 
my dear Master Herrick, are rather to be pitied than 
condemned. I beg, therefore, that, for the future, you 
will never again take upon you to fight for a thing which 
you do not understand.” Herrick made his bow, and retir- 
ed to his seat; but Harry felt so indignant that he could 
not refrain from saying, “ Sir, my religion is the best ; I 
don’t care what any one says, and I’ll stand up for it as 
long as Tm able.” Another titter from the boys. 


28 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


•furtive looks of derision and contempt meeting him on 
every side. To a high spirited, sensitive boy, like Harry, 
this was^ bad enough, but the worst of all was y<et to 
come. 

“Master Henry Blake!” said Mr. Simpson, from his 
place behind the desk, “come here, I want to speak with 
you.” 

Harry instantly obeyed. “May I ask how you came 
Dy that patch over your eye-brow?” He knew well 
enough, but thought it prudent to make a show of igno- 
rance. 

“It was Sam Herrick, sir, that gave me a blow of a 
stick.” 

“Master Herrick — come here, sir!” Master Herrick 
went accordingly. 

“How did you come to strike Master Blake with a 
stick? what sort of conduct is this?” 

“It was all his own fault, sir, I assure you. He would 
insist on it that I had insulted him because I happened 
to say that St. Peter was an old fisherman, for all papists 
make so much to do about him.” 

“Yes, and did you not say that the pope was anti- 
christ?” put in Harry; “you needuT try to get out of 
it.” 

“Have patience, my good boy, let ns hear him out,^^ 
said Mr. Simpson. “ Go on, Master Herrick.” 

“ And so, sir, he called me some ugly names, and finally 
gave me a push that sent me reeling against the wall ” — 

“Yes, but didn't jou say that all the Irish were low, 
mean people, the meanest set in all the wor][d ?” And 
Harry unconsciously imitated Herrick’s peculiar accent to 
Buch perfection that the boys within hearing all laughed, 
to Sam’s great mortification. 


THE TWO, SCHOOLS. 


29 


“ And what if I did — a’n’t it true what I said ? — you 
can’t deny it, do as yon will.” 

Harry was about to make an angry response when the 
master interposed, and his tones were so mellifluous, so full 
of unction, that no angry passion could have withstood it. 

“ ^fy good boys,” said he, “your are both wrong — yes, 
both wrong” (the boys looked at each other) — “in the 
school-room, and in the vicinity of the school-room, reli- 
gion is a forbidden theme; in fact, it is always wrong, and 
everywhere wrong, for boys to quarrel about religion, as 
religion is only for men — full-grown men. At your age, 
religion is wholly unnecessary — it will be time enough for 
each of you to fake your stand on that question when you 
hav^ come to the age of maturity. The Great Creator 
of all things left man to his own free will, in order that 
he might choose a religion for himself, but he is not in a 
condition to choose until he reaches man’s estate. Behold 
now, my dear pupils, how silly a thing it is to fight about 
religion, before you can know what religion really is. 
Samuel Herrick, go to your seat, and. I trust I shall never 
again hear of you inveighing against any form of worship; 
even the Roman Church, though corrupt and fiir behind 
the age, has still some grains of the Gospel seed. She is 
not wholly idolatrous, I believe, but still 'prof easts to wor- 
ship the true God. Those who belong to her communion, 
ray dear Master Herrick, are rather to be pitied than 
condemned. I beg, therefore, that, for the future, you 
will never again take upon you to fight for a thing which 
you do not understand.” Herrick made his bow, and retir- 
ed to his scat; but Harry felt so indignant that he could 
not refrain from saying, “ Sir, my religion is the best ; I 
don’t care what any one says, and I’ll stand up for it as 
long as I'm able.” Another titter from the boys. 


BLAKES AND iLANAGANS. 


nothing that I have been all that time teachi'.jg ‘ the 
young idea how to shoot/ Believe me there is a world of 
truth in the simple old lines : — 

‘ ’Tls education forms the common mind, 

Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined ;* 

and that is precisely the axiom on which I go in my 
management of the boys. I endeavor, sir, to ‘ bend the 
twig^ while it is a twig, for when it grows up to be a 
great, strong, sturdy oak, it would take a stronger arm 
than mine, ay 1 even the omnipotent arm of God, to 
bring it into subjection 

Such were the opinions of Mr. Lanigan, somewhat 
antiquated, I must confess, at least in this go-ahead 
country of ours ; but they were based on good, sound 
Catholic doctrine, and will never go out of fashion while 
there are on the earth true believers, who regard “ man’s 
fallen state ” as something more than a speculation. 

When the three young Flanagans entered the school- 
room, they found most of the boys already assembled, and 
Mr. Lanigan seated at his desk, whiling away the remain- 
ing quarter of an hour looking over a copy of the Dublin 
Freeman's Journal which he had received “ from home ” 
by the last mail. "Leaving his brothers to go to their 
respective seats, Edward Flanagan approached the old 
gentleman, who was far too deeply engaged to notice 
him. He was just in the middle, as he afterwards 
explained, of a great speech of O’Connell’s, and as 
Edward was too modest to interrupt him, there is no 
knowing how long he might have stood, had not the 
school-bell just then rang, whereupon Mr. Lanigan drop- 
ped his paper, for he was the life and soul of puuc 
tuality. 


THE- TWO- SCHOOLS; 


33 : 


To your places, boys, and prepare your lessons. Well, 
Xed, i?)y fine fellow, what’s the matter with you ?” 

“ My father wants you, sir, to come down a while this 
evening' to our house. He has something to tell you, and 
he says, if you please, sir, to bring the Irish paper with 
you ; he heard you got one yesterday.” 

“ Yes, Ned, 1 did ; tell your father I’ll go if I can at 
all. How are all at home this morning ?” 

“ All well, sir, thank you.” 

“ Well, go to your seat now — I’ll call up the grammar 
class in a few minutes.” Then raising his voice, and lay- 
ing down his spectacles on the desk : “ Boys, if you all 

get through your lessons to my satisfaction this forenoon, 
I have a great secret to tell you, and one that I know 
you’ll be glad to hear.” 

The boys all brightened up ; some of the younger 
clapped their hands and laughed, while a few of the 
seniors ventured to say, in a coaxing tone : “ Ah, Mr. 
Lanigan, won’t you tell it now, sir ? Do, if you please, 
sir, and we’ll work twice as hard after, if it’s any good 
news.” 

“ No, no ; go on with your lessons — you’ll have it before 
you. Mind, it all depends on how you acquit yourselves 
of your duties.” 

Matters went on, it would seem, as well as even Mr. 
Lanigan could wish ; for, no sooner had the last of the 
forenoon lessons been recited, than the old gentleman 
stood up, and placing his right hand on the desk, said : 

“ Boys, do you know what day to morrow will be ?” 

Several voices answered, “No, sir!” but the greater 
number called out; “Oh, yes, sir — to-morrow will be 
Patrick’s Day.” 

“ Saint Patrick’s day !” said Mr. Lanigan gravely. 

2 * 


34 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


I 


“Yes, sir, St. Patrick’s day, sir !” 

“ Well, as you have all been good boys this forenoon, 
if you continue as good during the afternoon, I purpose 
giving you a holiday to-morrow, in honor of our illustrious 
patron. That is, on condition that you will go to mass. 
There will be high mass in St. Peter’s, at ten o’clock, 
and then you can all go to see the procession afterwards.” 

“ Oh ! thank you. Mr. Lanigan ! — thank you most 
kindly, sir I — Yes, sir, to be sure we’ll all go to mass, 
sir !” were the glad responses from every part of the room, 
and as the boys, large and small, threw up their caps, 
and shouted in the exuberance of their glee, Mr. Lanigan 
laughed too, and felt as if he, also, could throw up his hat, 
in the fullness of his sympathy. “ There, now,” said he, 
“ that is all very well in here, now that the school is out, 
but remember to keep quiet when you go on the street. 
Act like good Christian boys, remembering that you are all 
the sons of St. Patrick ; don’t disgrace him by any bad, 
rude conduct.” 

“ Oh I never fear, sir, never fear !” was the quick 
response, and away went the boys to their several homes, 
to communicate the glad tidings. Very few of the young- 
sters forgot the old man’s injunction to go home quietly, 
and if any of the lesser ones did seem disposed to forget 
it, some older one would call him to order with, “ Hold 
on, there, Patrick,” or “ Michael” (or whatever the name 
might be) “ didn’t we all promise Mr. Lanigan to go 
home quietly ? — look sharp, now, or he might rue about 
giving us the holiday, to-morrow. How do you know but 
it’s looking after us he is ?” 

And so he was looking after them, exulting in the hap- 
piness he had himself created, and thinking, as N. P. 
Willis has since written : — 


( 


THE TWO SCHOOI, S. 


35 


“ I love to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 

And persuade myself that I am not old, 

And my locks are not yet grey. 

For it stirs the blood in an old man’s veins, 

And makes his pulses fly, 

To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 

And the light of a mirthful eye.” 

“ And is it possible,” said he to himself, with a heavy 
sigh, that half a century is gone by since I was like 
them ? What a strange thing is this life of ours, and how 
imperceptible the transition from youth to age ! Well ! 
it is a melancholy thing to feel ourselves growing old, yet, 
thanks to our divine faith, we are still on the same level. 
Here am I, an old man of sixty, looking forward to the 
celebration of St. Patrick’s Hay with asjnuch eagerness 
as f^id forty year s ag o. Blessings on his name, but it 
has the magi^l^pqwer orTouTlnsh hearts !” 

So saying, Mr. Lanigan carefully closed the doors, and 
took the well known way to his own domicile.. 

When evening came, the old man paid his promised 
visit to Tim Flanagan, w’hom he found seated in the midst 
of a joyous, noisy group. The room in which they sat, 
half kitchen, half sitting-room, had no pretensions to 
either luxury or ostentation ; it was “ the room of the 
household,” wdiere the family was wont to assemble at 
m'eal-times, and in the evenings, when the day’s work was 
over. Tim had the youngest girl on his knee when Mr. 
Lanigan entered, but, no sooner did Susan perceive the 
“ master” than she jumped down and ran to “climb his 
knee,” claiming, at the same time, the performance of a 
certain promise made some time before. 

“Well, Susan, I really forgot all about that pic- 
ture-book, but you’ll see I’ll have it the next time I 


come.’ 


86 


BLARES AND, FLANAGANS. 


Susan began to pout, and would keep talking about tlic 
picture book, till at last her mother 'was lorced to take 
her away, under pretence of having her wind up h«tr ball 
of yarn, ravelled by a mischievous kitten, who was gam- 
bolling about the room. 

The boys got into a corner, rather behind Mr. Lanigan’s 
chair. “ If he was after giving Susan one of his * dress- 
ings/ ” whispered Edward to hiS brothers, “I guess she 
wouldn’t take to him so I” 

“ I guess not/’ said Thomas, “ but then he never gives 
‘ a dressing ’ to any one that don’t deserve it. None of 
us has ever had one yet.” 

“ And 1 hope we’ll he so,’^ responded Ned ; “ hush ! hush! 
he’ll hear you. Listen to what father and he are saying.” 

“Well, I’m heart sorry for Miles/' observed Tim, “ but, 
after all, Mr. Lanigan, it’s his own fault, sir. If he’s 
sending his children head foremost into the pit with his 
eyes open, he has nobody to blame but himself. Even his 
wife — she’s my born sister, sir — is as much against .the 
thing as I am, only she doesn’t like, you see, to interfere 
between him and the young ones. For my part, I think 
the man’s bewitched.” 

“ Bewitched !” said Mr. Lanigan, laughing, “ yes. he is 
bewitched by the spirit of worldly wisdom. He thinks, 
in common with many others, that the temporal interest 
of his children is best promoted by sending them to Pro- 
testant or mixed schools. The poor man is w^elcome to 
his own opinion. Time will show him its fallacy, better 
than any human reasoning.” 

‘•God grant that the knowledge may not come too 
late !” said Mrs. Flanagan, with a heavy sigh. “ Poor 
Harry and poor Eliza ! may the holy Mother of God 
protect them 1” 


/ 


THE TWO SCHOOLS. 37' 

“ Can Father Power do nothing with Miles ?’’ inquired 
Mr. Lanigan. “ Surely he wouldn’t stand against his 
advic#?” 

“Well, I don’t know as to that, sir,” said Tim hesita- 
tingly. “ I have heard Fatiier Power reasoning cases 
with him, and lie’d always manage to get out. of some loop- 
hole or another. Of course, iiis reverence never laid his 
commands on him, for he doesn’t like to go so far if ho 
can help it, but he said enough to make him ashamed of 
himself, if he had any sliame in him Nelly, you didn’t 
ask Mr. Lanigan if he’d take a glass of punch. You'll 
be the better of something to warm you, sir, the night is 
cold and raw.” 

“Well, I don’t care if I do avail myself of your kind 
oiler, ril take a little gin and water, if you please, Mrs. 
Flanagan, ju.>t to ‘drown my shamrock’ for to-rnorrow. 
You’ll walk, of course, Mr. Flanagan ?” 

“ Oh, then, to be sure 1 will ! It would be a bad day 
if I didn’t. You know I belong to the old Hibernians. 
Here's your health, Mr. Lanigan, — may you live to see 
many returns of the great anniversary !” 

“ Many thanks to you, Mr. Flanagan ! I wish you the 
same ! and allow me to add another good wish : may you 
never have a son a worse Catholic or a worse Irishman 
than yourself !— Don’t you take anything yourself, Mrs. 
Flanagan ?” 

“ No, sir, thank you, I never take any thing stronger 
than tea or colFee. Children, I thiiik it’s time for you to 
go to bed. Bid Mr. Lanigan ‘ good-night.’ ” The chil- 
dren obeyed, and after some further conversation, on 
indifferent topics, Mr. Lanigan returned to his home, his 
head full of the approaching festival. 


38 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


■ 

% ■ , 


CHAPTER III. 

ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 

It was “ St. Patrick’s day, in tke morning,” and the 
whole Irish population of the city was in a state of joy- 
ous, hilarious commotion ; ‘men and boys were seen hurry- 
ing in crowds towards the place of meeting, each one 
dressed “ in his best,” and wearing on his breast a badge 
of “ our own immortal green,” some surmounted by a 
cross, others a harp, and others still, the figure of a 
shamrock ; and handsome badges many of them were, but 
poor substitutes, the wearers thought^ for that 

“ Chosen leaf 
Of bard and chief, 

Old Erin’s native shamrock.” 

The streets were vocal with the old strains transplanted 
from the hills and dales of Ireland, as the boys caught 
up and re-echoed snatches of the Irish airs played by the 
various bands. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, 
every moment, and, as band after band came up playing 
“ Patrick’s day,” “ Garry Owen,” or ‘-'The Girl I left 
behind me,” the scene became more and more animated. 
The wild enthusiasm of the Celtic nature was at its 
height ; every eye flashed, and every heart throbbed with 


ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 39 

joyous emotion, when suddenly one of the bands struck 
up “The Exile of Erin,” and the others all followed ; in 
an instant all was changed, the light faded from the laugh- 
ing eye, and tenderness, if not sorrow, was in every heart ; 
a spell was cast on the vast multitude, and, save the soft, 
wailing music, no sound was to be heard. Memory was 
busy with most of those present; their hearts were far away 
in the land of their fathers, the home of their youth ; and 
the present, for the moment, gave place to the past. 
Many an eye was moistened with tears for the “ sisters 
and sii'o,’’ for ever lost, and many a sigh was heaved for 

“ the cottage hard by the wild-wood,” 

levelled perhaps, by a merciless landlord, or a cruel tithe- 
proctor. A long, mournful cadence, another turn of the 
music, and quick as thought, the tears were wiped away, 
the smiles returned, and every foot was beating time to 
“ Garry Owen na Glora.” Such is the Irish heart, under 
the influence of Irish music. 

At length the procession was formed, and moved for- 
ward in good order towards St. Patrick’s Cathedral, 
where high mass was celebrated, and a sermon preached 
by Dr. Levins, on the life and virtues of St. Patrick. 
After mass the procession was again formed, and resumed 
its march with renewed animation. 

Tim Flanagan was there in his glory with his three sons. 
Miles left bis store for that day to the care of his thrifty 
helpmate, and “turned out” in honor of St. Patrick. 
Harry was there, too, in person, but hardly in spirit, for 
amid all the witchery of the scene, he had before him a 
certain vision of “ losing his place ” in several of the 
school-classes. There was his mathematics — the pride ot 


40 - 


BLAKESAND FLANAGANS. 


his heart — to which he had devoted more study than to 
all his other lessons put together ; well, yesterdiiy he was 
at the head, and to-morrow he will have to take his jdaee 
at the foot of the class, on account of being a day absent, 
and, worse than all ! it is his mortal foe, Sam Herrick, 
who is to have his forfeited place. And then Hngl) 
Dillon and the other Catholic boys who w^ent to school 
regardless of “ Patrick’s day,” would all laugh at him. 
It wms really too bad, Harry thought. He wished his 
father hadn’t forced him to stay from sch.ool. Then he 
w^ould try to listen to the music and read the inscriptions 
on the banneivs, but it wouldn’t do. “ It wms no go,” lie 
said to himself, and again he wished he hadn’t come. 

“ It is all very well for father and uncle,” said he to 
himself ; “ They came from Ireland, and are used to this 

sort of thing, but J guess I’d rather be at the matliema- 
tics just now% or even hammering Sam Herrick.” And 
then he wondered how his cousins, the young Flanagans, 
could take such an interest in wliat \vas going on. “ But 
they ha’n’t got to lose their places, to-morrow,” thought 
he, “ if they had, I’ve a notion that they couldn’t enjoy 
the fun ns much as they do. There’s no school in tlieir 
school to day. I wish there was none in ours, or else 
that father had let me go. I do !” And poor Harry 
sighed deeply. It never occurred to him that he w'as at 
the wrong school, and that all his difficulties arose from 
the fact that he was under Protestant or rather non- 
Catholic influence. 

Edward Flanagan noticed his cousin’s dejection, and 
strove to cheer him after his own fashion ; “ Isn’t it 
lucky,” said ho, “that the day is so fine? The streets 
are a little muddy, to be sure, hut w'e don’t mind that 


ST. P A T 11 I C K ’S DAY THE PREMIUM. 4 


Doesn't it do your iieart good, Ilnrry, to see such a turn 
out of Irishmen. Pin sure J feel as if 1 could jump out 
of my skin for joy.” 

“ But we ain’t all Irishmen, as you say, or Irish boys 
either.” 

“ And what are we, then ?” demanded Edward, in 
surprise. 

“ Why, Americans to be sure — were we not born here ?” 

“Well. I suppose so,” returned Ned, coolly, “but 
what of that? aren’t we the sons of Irishmen, ay ! and 
the sons of St. Patrick, too, as Mr. Lanigun told ns yes- 
terday afternoon ? I’m sure St. Patrick is worthy of all 
the honor we can pay him ; don’t -you know what he did 
for Ireland ?” 

“Yes, I guess I have heard enough about what he did 
for Ireland, but that woii’t do for me ; it ain’t very likely 
that he’ll help me to get my place again. There, you see, 
I was head in mathematics, second in rhetoric, and third 
in natural philosophy ; now I’ll be foci, in everyone of 
them. I wish they wouldn’t keej) Patrick’s day here ; 
they might leave it behind in Ireland, I’m sure.” 

Ned Flanagan could hardly believe his ears ; he opened 
his large blue eyes, and fi.xed them on his cousin, in a sort 
of breathless astonishment. He fully expected to see 
Harry laugh, but hlarry neither laughed nor smiled. 

“ Why, Harry, what’s got into you, that you speak so ? 
I never heard 'you speak so before. But you’re jesting, 
now ; I’m sure you are !” 

“ Not a bit of it ; I’m downright in earnest I’’ 

“ More shame for you, then,” responded Ned, “ and you 
may just walk by yourself for me. Master Yankee It’s 
true enough what my father says.” 

What does he say ?” 


42 


BLAKE^ AND FLANAGANS. 


“ You can ask him yourself, the first opportunity.^’ And 
so saying, the indignant young champion fell back to join 
his brotliers who were close behind, muttering to himself: 
“ If I don’t tell Father Power every word of it.” 

The procession was at last over ; the banners and the 
music were all inclosed within the hall where some hun- 
dreds of the sons of Ireland dined together, in commemo- 
ration of the day ; Patrick’s day had disappeared from 
the streets, save here and there where some groups of 
Irishmen were seen wending their homeward way, distin- 
guished by their gay green badges. Tim Flanagan and 
his boys had just got home, and were seated at their com- 
fortable dinner, later than usual by a couple of hours, when 
Edward said to his father : “ What can be the reason, 
father, that Harry Blake talks so strange as he does 
sometimes 

“Why, what has he been saying now, Ned 

Ned repeated the dialogue that had so annoyed him, 
and, to his great surprise, his father only smiled, while his 
mother told him to “ mind his own business, and not 
bother himself about what didn’t concern him. If you 
could do poor Harry any good, it would be all right 
enough, but you can’t, Ned dear, you can’t do him any 
good so long-as matters stand as they are. Bless your- 
selves, children, and get to your dinner ; Pm sure you’re 
all half starved.” 

Tim “ helped the children all round,” as Nelly said, and 
then helped himself, but somehow he had lost his appetite, 
and though he tried to eat, to please Nell}^ who had 
taken great pains to make a nice stew, still he could not 
make a meal of it, do as he would. His usual cheerful- 
ness seemed to have forsaken him, and even the merry 
pranks of little Susy were scarcely noticed. At length, 


F 


ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 43 

he pushed away his plate, and said across the table to 
Kelly, witli a disturbed and anxious look, 

“ Well 1 It’s really too bad — it’s enough to vex a saint, 
so it is I” ' ' 

“ What do you mean, Tim dear ?” said his wife anx- 
iously, at the same time dropping her own knife and fork ; 

is it the stew you mean — I’m sure if it’s bad, it isn’t my 
fault ; I did my best to make it good.” 

Tim laughed heartily, just as his wife expected : “ I 
know you did, Nelly, I know you did. I have nothing to 
say to the stew only what’s good. It’s of Miles Blake 
I’m thinking ; you see it’s just coming to pass as I often 
told you it would. Now, that boy — Harry I mean — 
would be one of the finest boys in the city of New York 
if he were only put under proper training. He was as 
promising a child as ever I laid my eyes upon, and I 
thought he’d be a credit to us all, but you see how it is 
now ! — he’ll be a disgrace to us, Nelly, if God hasn’t said 
it !” 

“Hut, tut, Tim, what do you say that for? sure we 
haven’t seen anything to say very bad of him yet, and its 
always time enough to hid the devil good morrow when you 
meet him. Don’t fret any more about him, for you liave 
done all you could to bring Miles to reason, apd, after all, 
Tim, it’s him that’s accountable to God for him — not you. 
If we could get him to be more with our boys— he’s too 
much among them other sort — that’s what’s doing the 
mischief.” 

“ To be sure it is, Nelly — that and the Protestant teach- 
ing he gets — may the Lord save him ! Never mind, I’ll 
set Father Power at Miles again ; we’ll not give it up so 
easily !” Having thus relieved his mind by talking over 
the matter, Tim recovered his natural gaiety and soon 


I 


44 


BLARES AND FI. A NAPA. NS. 


for^’ot his recent disquietude in a game of voiups witli the 
childrea. 

Towards the evening, Eiiza Blake came in, her usually 
pale face flushed and smiling, and a certain nervous trepi* 
dation in her manner, which was very 7t?uisnal with her. 
She had in her hand a. small parcel, neatly done up in 
blue paper, and Troin the way in which she looked at it, 
and held it up before the children, it was pretty evident 
that it contained the cause of her joy. Ilnnning up to 
her aunt, who was sewing at a small table near the stove, 
she threw her arms about her neck and kissed her ; then 
took up Susan on her knee and began to untie the pre- 
cious parcel while all the other children gathered eagerly 
round to see what was coming. 

“Why, what have you got there, Eliza,” said her aunt, 
“ that you seem so delighted 

“Oh! something very nice, aunty — only look!” and 
she drew from its paper covering a handsomely bound 
volume, gilt-edged and otherwise highly ornamented, which 
she held up before her aunt, whispering at the same time 
to the child on her knee : “ There’s some beautiful pic- 
tures in it, Susy, that I want to show you.” 

“ That’s a very pretty book, Eliza, my dear ! how did 
you come by it ?” 

“ Oh ! that’s the best of all, aunty ! I received it this 
afternoon from my teacher. Miss Davison, as a reward 
for good conduct. I knew you would be pleased to find 
that I am doing so well at school, so I just brought over 
the book to show it to you and my uncle ! Yon know I 
don’t much like the school — or rather, I used not to like 
it, but really I find this so very kind of iMiss Davison, 
that I begin, already, to think better of her school. Just 
look what a pretty book.” 


ST. PATRICK ’S DAY THE PREMIUM. 45 

Tlie exterior of the volume was duly admired, and then 
iSIrs. Flanagan jn’oceeded to investigate the contents, say- 
ing “ I wonder if it’s as pretty within as without ?” 

Oh dear, yes, aunty !— it has ever so many beautiful 
pictures.” 

“ Yes, so I perceive. Let me see what’s the name. 
Thz Beauties of History. That ought to-be a good thing. 
Have you read any of it, Eliza?” 

“ Yot mlicli, only just a chapter or so.” 

“ And what is it about ?” 

“ Oh ! about the burning of some people in Spain long 
ago, on account of religion. I didn’t much like it, it’s 
so pitiful to read such things, but then it seems it’s all 
quite true. Miss Davison says so. How wicked it was 
.*:o burn people because they wouldn’t give up their reli- 
gion ! Wasn’t it dreadful, aunty ?” 

Just then her uncle came in, and all the children cried 
out, “ Oh ! father, father, see what a beautiful present 
Eliza got from her teacher — the prettiest book ever you 
saw !” 

“ From her teacher, eh ?” said Tim drily. “ Will you 
let me look at it ?” — “ There can’t come anything good from 
that quarter,” said he to himself. 

Eliza handed him the book, and, leaning over his shoul- 
der, pointed out the words written on a fly leaf at the 
beginning : — Presented to ]\liss Eliza Blake, as a reward 
for 'punctuality, correct deportment, and diligent attention to 
her studies. 

Ward School No. . iV. T., March IS—. 

“ So far, so good, Eliza,” said her uncle ; “ now let us 
see what this book is. 1 hope it’s all right," but I have 
my doubts about it.” He turned over the leaves in silence 


46 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


for some time, then suddenly he stopped with an emphatical 
' “ humph !” and deliberately turned down the corner of a 
leaf, regardless of Eliza’s earnest remonstrances. Another 
and another leaf was turned down, to Eliza’s great dismay, 
Tim’s face waxing redder and redder as he proceeded. 
Eliza became “ all of a tremor,” and even her aunt’s 
curiosity was fully aroused. 

“Why, Tim dear, what sort of a book is it, at all ?” 

“It’s the very thing I expected to find it, only a little 
worse. Just listen, Nelly, and you, Eliza ; what do you 
think of this ?” 

The paragraph which he read was descriptive of the 
blessed effects of the Reformation, the greatness and glory 
of those who figured in it, especially Luther, Calvin, and 
Queen Elizabeth ; the hideousness and deformity of 
Pojpery as a system, its demoralizing influence on the 
human mind ; its determined hostility to education, and, 
consequently, to civilization ; the abominations of the 
monastic communities, &c., &c. 

“ For goodness sake, stop I” cried Mrs. Flanagan, 
“ we’ve heard too much already. Why that book ought 
to be thrown in the fire. No Catholic ought to read it.” 

“Pooh, Nelly ! you talk like an ignorant, benighted 
Papist. Wouldn’t it be a thousand pities to burn such a 
fine book as that ?” holding it up before them, “ what do 
2/ousay, Eliza ?” 

“ I don’t know what to say, uncle ; I’m so surprised at 
Miss Davison for giving me such a book as that, and she 
knowing very well that I’m a Catholic. I’ll just show 
father that place you’re after reading as soon as ever I go 
home, and Pll take the book back to Miss Davison to- 
morrow. I’m sure father will be very angry.” 

“ And that ho may, I pray God I” said Mrs. Flanagan, 


ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 47 

with pious fervor ; “ who knows but this will open his 
eyes ?” 

“ If it does, it will be the lucky book,” said Tim; “ that’s 
what neither man nor mortal could do these five years.” 

“ Well, Tim, you know God has his own good time for 
doing everythiil^. Just go down yourself with the book 
and show it to Miles. Let Eliza stay here till you come 
back, and mind you don’t be long away, for we’ll all be 
uneasy till we hear the news I” 

“May I go with you, father ?” said Edward. 

“No, no ; stay here with Eliza and your mother. Be 
good children till I come back, and I’ll bring you lots of 
candy !” 

“Would you like to go with him, Lizzy?” said her 
aunt, in a low voice. 

“ Oh no, aunty 1 I’d a great deal rather stay here. I 
don’t care to be at home when father’s in a passion. He 
does make such a time of it.” 

“Why, sure he never says anything to you, Eliza? I 
know he gives it to your mother now and then, and some- 
times Harry comes in for his share ; but I thought he 
never said anything cross to you.” 

“ Well, no more he don’t, aunty ; but then I never like 
to hear any one scolding. It makes me feel dreadful bad. 

I hope he’ll not go down to the school to-morrow and 
make a fuss. I’m sure Miss Davison meant no harm 
when she gave me the book ; she doesn’t know that 
Catholics are so particular about books. She gave Jessy 
McPherson one just the same.” 

“ Yes, but Jessy McPherson is a Protestant ?” 

“ Oh ! of course she is, aunty !” * 

“ Well ! that makes all the difference, you see. What 
answers one, doesn’t answer the other.” 

“ Why can’t we all be of the same religion, aunty ?” 


48 


BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 


said Eliza ; “ if we were, we’d have no need to quarrel 
about books.” 

“It would take a wiser head than mine to tell you that, 
Lizzy. All I know is, that we’re not all of the same reli- 
gion, and as we have the true religion, we must try and 
keep it, with God’s help.” 

“ Well, but if we have it, aunty, we can’t lose it very 
easy, 1 guess. It a’n’t reading a book that would make 
us Protestants, is it ?” 

“ Yes, it would,” said Edward, stoutly, before his 
mother had time to answer ; “ it was eating the forbidden 
fruit that made the first sinner. Father Power sa 3 's ; and 
you know we’re forbidden to read bad books, Lizzy ; so 
if we read them we’d be Protestants, because Mr. Lani- 
gan says that a Protestant is one who rebels against the 
lawful authority of the Church. Isn’t that true, mother ?” 

“ I believe it is, Ned,” said his mother with her bright- 
est smile ; “ you’re getting on so fast^ these times that 
you’ll soon be able to teach us all.” 

“ Oh no, mother dear,” replied the boy, with a look of 
unutterable affection, “ it would take a little fellow like 
me a long, long, while to know as much as you do. Boys 
can never be as wise as their father or mother, you know, 
for we learn in our catechism that our parents are placed 
over us by God to guide and direct us.” 

“ Well, but about the book ?” said Eliza somewhat im- 
patiently. “ Do you think Father Power would be very 
angry if he knew I got it?” 

“Not so angry as if he knew you kept it,” said Mrs. 
Flanagan, with a smile ; “ but if you or your father wanted 
to please Father Power you’d keep out of the way of 
getting such books. Children, it’s getting Tate ! you 
ought to be learning your lessons.” 

When Tim Flanagan sauntered into his brother-in-law’s 


ST. PATRICK'S DAY THE PREMIUM. 49 

store, with his hands in his pockets, and his face as com- 
posed as if nothing were wrong, he found Miles very busy 
serving some customers. A nod was as much as he could 
spare time for. “Go in,” said he, “ you’ll find Mary 
inside.” 

Mrs. Blake was just setting the table for supper, and 
Harry was sitting one side learning his lessons by the 
light of one of those glass oil-lamps, so common in the 
Eastern and Middle States. 

“ Hard at work, Harry I” said his uncle, taking a seat 
near him, “ you seem to be fonder of study than you used 
to be. What’s this you’re at now ?” 

“ Bible and Gospel History, uncle.” 

“ Humph ! ‘ Bible and Gospel History !’ very good — 
I suppose ; I don’t like anything about the Bible coming 
from Protestants ; there’s a snare in it, depend upon it.” 

Harry laughed, and was about to make some witty 
response, when the door opened, and in came his father 
from the store. 

“ You’re just in time. Miles,” said his wife, “ I was 
going to call you. Supper’s ready, and Harry can stay 
without till you’re done.” 

“ Agreed,” said Miles ; “ sit over, Tim, and have some 
supper. What’s your best news ?” 

“ Nothing worth speaking of, if it isn’t the beautiful 
batch of cakes that I saw Mary putting in the oven t-here 
a while ago,” 

“ And it’s not bad news, either, at the present time, for 
I’m as hungry as a hawk, Let us have some of them, 
Mary, as soon as you can.” 

“Here they are, Miles, smoking hot. Sit over, Tim, 
and try if they’re as good as they look/^ 

“ M^ell, I, don’t care if I do, then,” said Tim, moving 
3 


50 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


his chair towards the table ; “it^s a friend would ask me, 
so never say it twice. Now that you’re in the way of 
satisfying your hunger, Miles, I want to ask you a ques- 
tion. Did you see the book that Eliza got at school to- 
day ?” 

Yes, yes !” said both husband and wife, eagerly ; 
“ isn’t it a beautiful book ?” 

“ The outside of it’s well enough,^’ responded Tim 
coolly, “ but I’m sorry I can’t say as much for the inside. 
Did you look over it all ?” 

No, neither of them had had time ; what sort of a 
book was it ? 

“Just wait till after supper, and I’ll read you some 
passages. I’ll take another cup of that tea, Mary, if you 
please.” 

“ I’ll engage you’ll be for finding fault with that book 
now,” said Miles, pettishly, “ because Eliza got it from her 
teacher ?” 

“ I’ll not say one word against it. Miles, not a word. 
Let it tell its own story.” 

Mrs. Blake looked at her husband, but said nothing. 
She had a misgiving that all was not right, but thought 
she would “ bide her time” to put in a word. 

“ Now for it,” said Miles, when they had finished their 
meal. “ Hurry yourself, Tim, till I let Harry to his 
supper. Where liave you that book ?” 

“ Here it is, Miles ; read for yourself.” And he point- 
ed out to him the paragraph “ on the Ref or mention T 

Miles began to read aloud, and for some time made 
no other comment than an occasional “ humph”— “ ’by- 
George I” By and bye it began to be : “ Well I that’a 

not so bad, either ! The Reformation, indeed ! a pretty 
Reformation it was I” Tim and his sister exchanged looks, 


ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 51 


but said not a word. They could see by Miles’s face that 
the steam was getting up, and they waited the result in 
silence. 

“ Yes,” said Miles, “ that was surely a great time, and 
old Harry the Eighth was a great fellow — 

‘When he the papal power rejected, 

And from the Church the realm dissected, 

And in the great St. Peter’s stead. 

Proclaim’d himself the Church’s head.’ * 

— They haven’t a word here about the causes of the Re- 
formation ! oh no I” 

“ Why, yes they have,” said Tim, with sly humor ; 
“ don’t they tell all about the corruption of the Church, 
and the wicked lives of the clergy, and the ‘ worse than 
pagan superstition ’ of the people ? — bless the mark I” 

“ Ay, I see there’s plenty of that kind of stuff in it. 
The sham causes are all given, but not a word about the 
real ones. Not a word about old Harry’s beastly doings, 
or about Cranmer, the reprobate, smuggling his old jade 
over from Germany in a chest I Ah, the villians ! it’s 
true enough what Ward says in his Cantos : — 

“ With every vice they stock’d the nation 
To fit it for a Reformation.” t 

Tim waited patiently till Miles had vented’ some of his 
indignation, then he quietly asked ; “What do you think 
of such a book as that for a present to your daughter — 
eh. Miles?” 

“ I think bad enough of it,” said Miles snappishly, “ and 
if I live till to-morrow. I’ll tell Miss Davison so with my 
own lips ; I will, by George !” 

“ Yes,” said Tim, “ you’ll do great things, I know my- 

♦ “ Ward’s Cantos,” Cant. I., p. 29. t p. 54. 


52 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


self. What good will it do for you to bring back the 
book, when you expose your children, day after day, to 
the danger of Protestant leaching ? Don’t you remem- 
ber the old saying, there's more ways of killing a dog. than 
choking him with butter ? This villain of a book is only 
one instance of the way in which they go on with Catho- 
lic children in them common schools. Now my little 
Ellen ’s just beginning to read, and Sister Mary Teresa 
gave her a prize the other day for good conduct, but you 
may be sure there was no poison in it ; nothing about 
Papist ignorance or superstition, or the blessings of the 
Reformation ; no, no, it was the Life of St. Francis de 
Sales, and, though Ellen can’t read much of it herself yet, 
she gets Ned to read it for her, and they’re all as much 
taken up with it as if it was a story-book. Then, Ned 
got the life of St. Patrick some time ago, for a premium, 
you remember, and he has it almost by heart now, he 
kept at it so. If your children were going to the same 
schools as mine you’d have no need of getting in a pas- 
sion, or returning bad books on the teachers, take my 
word for it.” 

“I wish to God, Miles, you’d take Tim’s advice at 
last,” said his wife ; “it is not too late yet I” she added 
anxiously. 

“No, hang me if I do ! as Tve burned the candle Til 
burn the inch. Tim is always holding up his children as 
an example, and I’m bound to show him that mine will be 
just as good Catholics, though they are brought up at 
the common school. As for this unlucky book. I’ll take 
good care that Eliza never gets such another reward pre- 
sented to her.” 

Mrs. Blake shook her head sorrowfully, and Tim began 
to whistle, “ The Little House under the Hill.” Miles, 


r 


ST. Patrick’s day — the premium. 53 

got “ on the high horse,” as his wife said, and went out 
ill a pout to relieve guard in the store. Harry came in 
to his supper, and Tim found out all of a sudden, that 
“ it was time to be moving home.” 

“ Isn’t it a poor case, Tim, dear ?” said his sister, in a 
low voice ; “ Suppose we ask Father Power to try him 
again ; will you speak to him 1” 

“ I will, if you wish it, but I haven’t much hopes, for a 
reason I have.” 

“And what is it, Tim ?” 

“ Oh ! it’s one I don’t care to tell you,” said Tim, “ it 
•would do you no good to hear it.” So he bid them good- 
night, uodding to Miles as he passed through the store, 
and muttering to himself as he walked home : — 

“ Convince a fool against his will, » 

He’s of the same opinion still.” 

To the various questions which greeted him on his re- 
turn, Tim curtly replied : “ the book’s to go back to Miss 
Davison to-morrow ; and your father with it, Eliza. 
That’s all I can tell.” 

“ Dear me I” said Eliza, “ how am I to face Miss Davi- 
son after that ? I wish father would either take me 
from the school, or else let me keep the book I What in 
in the world shall I do, aunty ?” 

“ God direct you for the best ! I wish I could assist 
you, but you see I can’t. Pray to God and the Blessed 
Virgin to keep you out of harm’s way. I think it’s time 
you were going home now, for your mother will be on the 
look-out. Poor Mary !” she added, after Eliza was 
gone ; “ Poor Mary ! it’s the hard fate that he’s prepar- 
ing for you with his wild notions ; he’s breaking the staff 
that would support your old age and his I” 


54 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Ay ! that he is, Nelly, and when the time comes for 
him to reap what he’s sowing now, nobody can be sorry 
for him ; as he brews, so he must hake, as my poor old 
mother used to say, God be good and merciful to her soul.” 

“ Amen !” responded Nelly, with pious fervor, and then 
the night prayers being read aloud by Tim, the family 
went “ to prepare for bed,” hot without a parting prayer 
to St. Patrick to watch over and protect “them and 
theirs ” during the ensuing year. 

Thus ended St. Patrick’s day in Tim Flanagan’s peace- 
ful household. 

Next morning Miles Blake went with Eliza to school^ 
and to her great confusion, returned the obnoxious book. 
“ He and his daughter were entirely obliged, and he was 
proud to hear she was doing so well, but she was a Catho- 
’'lic, and could not read or keep such a book.” 

“ Indeed I” said Miss Davison, in great surprise, “ why, 
what do you find wrong in the book, Mr. Blake V” 

“ Everything wrong. Miss, everything wrong ; so I’ll 
thank you to give Eliza no more books, let her be ever 
so diligent and attentive.” 

This was a great blow to the amiable and pious Miss 
Davison ; but she had only to bear it with Christian re- 
signation as a fresh proof of Romish bigotry. “ Poor 
creatures I” sighed the charitable young lady, “ they have 
eyes and will not see ; ears and will not hear ; we would 
enlighten them, but they will not be enlightened ! how 
sad a thing it is to ‘ sit ’ thus ‘ in darkness and the shadow 
of death,’ in the full glare of gospel truth I And she 
gave an extra twist to her glossy dark ringlets, in prepa- 
ration for a class meeting, whereat she proposed to make 
capital of ‘ this melancholy affair.’ ” 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 55 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 

Next morning when Harry and Eliza were preparing 
for school, their mother asked Eliza if Miss Davison had 
said anything to her about the book. 

“ No, mother, not a word, but I could see that she 
wasn’t very well pleased with me, and I did feel so bad, 
for I heard some of the girls making fun and carrying on 
about it. Every time I had to pass in front of any of the 
benches, they’d be going on with : ‘ Why, do tell !’ ‘ Did 

you ever ?’ or one would ask another ; ‘ Don’t you wish 
you were a papist?’ ‘ I guess not I’ the other would answer, 
‘for then, you know, I could not take any premiums.’” 

“Well, it a’n’t any wonder that they’d laugh so,” said 
Harry ; “it was real mean of father to return the book. 
That’s my opinion.” 

“ Your opinion I” said his mother, laying down the 
smoothing-iron she had in her hand, “ and who asked you^ 
sir, for your opinion ? How dare you speak so of what 
your father thought proper to do ?” 

“ Hold on there, mother,” replied Harry, with a laugh 
so gay that his mother could hardly help laughing, too, 
notwithstanding her just anger ; “ hold on a little ; I 


56 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


guess I’ve about as good a right to give an opinion as any 
one else. A’n’t I a native-born citizen ‘ of these United 
States V ” 

“ Get out of my sight, you young jackanapes,” said his 
mother, “or I’ll not be able to keep my hands off you I 
You a citizen, indeed ; if ever I hear you say the like of 
that again, at least till you come to the years of manhood, 
I’ll — I’ll tell your father, as sure as I’m a living woman.” 

“ Why, no, mother, you wouldn’t be so cruel,” said the 
waggish boy, vaulting out the back way, and drawing his 
sister after him. “ Come along, Eliza, it’s most time for 
school, I reckon.” 

“ Eor shame, Harry ! for shame I how could you speak 
so to mother ?” 

“And why not?” said Harry, turning short round, 
“ didn’t I tell her the truth ?” 

“ Well, but suppose you did, you shouldn’t speak to her 
like that ; I’m real angry with you, Harry.” 

“ Why, look here, Eliza ! do you think I’m going to be 
a boy always ; shan’t 1 be a man one of these days ?” 

“ Well, ] suppose so.” 

“ Then, how do you think I’m to act or speak like a 
man, if I don’t begin in time ?” They were just then in 
sight of the school-house, and Harry dismissed his sister 
with “ there, go along about your business, and, as mother 
said to me, I say to you, if ever I hear you say the like 
of that again. I’ll — I’ll tell your father !” and Harry im- 
itated his mother to such perfection that any one else , 
could not help laughing ; but Eliza was in no laughing 
humor, and she entered the school-room with a heavy heart. 
Ill prepared was she for the sneers and taunts of her com- 
panions. Her dejection was very generally noticed, and 
as generally attributed to sorrow for the loss of her pre- 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 57 

mium. “ It’s good for her,” said one and another. “ I 
hope she’ll never have the chance of acting so again.” 

Now, Eliza Blake was then not quite thirteen, and, 
though gifted with an understanding beyond her years, 
still she could not see the utility of her father’s returning 
the book. She very naturally considered that it was too 
bad for her nice premium to be taken from her, and inter- 
nally resolved that if ever she did get one again, she 
would say nothing of it at home, but just put it snugly 
away, where her mother or father could not find it. “ It 
does make me feel bad,” said she to hepself, “ to have 
them laughing so ; and what harm could the book do me, 
especially if I didn’t read it ?” 

These sentiments she incautiously communicated to a 
young girl who sat near her, and who was, moreover, her 
“ particular friend.” This girl, Jane Pearson, waded 
after school was out to tell Miss Davison of Eliza’s “ good 
resolution,” and when Eliza came next morning, she found 
herself, to her great surprise, a greater favorite than ever. 
Miss Davison had a seat placed for her near her own desk, 
because,” said the kind teacher, “ poor Miss Blake is so 
delicate ; she is not able to study much, and I must help 
her a little with her lessons.” 

This change was wholly incomprehensible to Eliza, but 
Jane Pearson took the first opportunity of clearing up the 
mystery. “ It was I that did it, dear Eliza, I told her 
how you had made up your mind to keep your premiums 
like the rest of us for the time to come. Never mind 
thanking me, you’ll do as much for me another time. Try 
hard, now, and w'in back what you’ve lost.” 

And Eliza did try hard ;” her pride was hurt by the 
ridicule of her school-mates, and she made up her mind to 
leave them no room to laugh at her for the time to come ; 

3 * 


58 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


she was always one of the first in every class, and she 
would keep ahead still, come w’hat might. That she could 
not do were she to lose Miss Davison’s friendship, but it 
depended on herself to keep it, and keep it she would at 
all hazards. True, she did not much like the girls — most 
of them were so rough and so “ forward ” in their manners, 
and so much opposed to Catholics ; but then that was a 
reason the more for her trying to keep ahead of them. 

When school was dismissed, Eliza waited at the corner 
till her brother came up. He had with him a young lad, 
about his own age, Zachary Thomson, a lively, good- 
hearted boy as any in the school, and a fast friend of Harry 
Blake’s ; as Zach used to say, “ though Harry did go to 
the Paddy church, he liked him better than any boy he 
knew, and would always take his part, let Sara Herrick 
and the others do as they might.” 

Eliza would have gone on when she saw Zach with 
Harry, but the latter called to her to wait for him. The 
two were talking very earnestly, and Eliza heard Zach 
saying: “Well, I guess you’K come, won’t you? I 
wouldn’t have you miss seeing that for a hundred dollars. 
You’ll say so yourself to-morrow.” 

“Hush,” said Harry, in a low voice, “don’t let my . 
sister hear you. She might tell father or mother, and 
then Pd lose the chance, now and for ever — at least for a 
good while. I’ll go if I can raise the money.” 

“ Why, can’t you ask the governor for it ; say you 
want it for some other purpose.” 

Harry nodded assent. “ p]liza,” said he, “ here’s Zach 
Thompson, wanted so bad to see you ; he says you must 
go home witli his sisters some afternoon and take tea. 
And Pm to go too,” 

“Won’t you come. Miss Blake ?” said Zach familiarly, 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 59 


'* Jane and Arabella are always talking abont yon, and 
motlier would be real glad to hare you come with my 
friend Harry here.’* 

Eliza blushed. She was not accustomed to speak to 
“strange boys,” as she said herself, and besides, she 
did not know how this iuTitation might be taken at home. 

“ Thank you ” .said she, “ I’ll — I’ll ask my mother if I 
may go.” 

A loud laugh from Zachary made her start, and blush 
still more deeply : “ Why ; what on earth has your 
mother to do with it ? Can’t you come some day from 
school, just to play with the girls, and me” he added, 
with a significant look at Harry. “ Promise me that 
you’ll come ; won’t you ?” 

“ Xo, no,” said Eliza, as she walked away, “not till I 
ask mother; come along home Harry, they’ll wonder what 
keeps us.” 

“ In one minute, Eliza. Where are we to meet P said 
he, in a whisper to Zachary. 

“ At the corner of Canal street. Mind, at half-past 
seven precisely ! Well, good-bye. Miss Blake. Think 
of what I told you ; you shall see what a good time we’ll 
have.” 

Eliza only shook her head, and she and Harry walked 
on together. “Now, Harry,” said Eliza, “where’s that 
you’re going this evening, you and Zach ?” 

“ Why, where would I be going ? What makes you 
think I'm going anywhere P’ 

“ I overheard you talking of it, so you needn’t deny it. 
You’re going to some place that you don’t want father 
to know.” 

“ Nonsense, Lizzy, don’t be making a fool of yourself ; 
I tell you we’re nol going anywhere that I know of.” 


60 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“I tell you you are going somewhere, and I partly 
guess where it is.” 

“ And where may it be, Miss Wiseacre ?” 

^'ToiTre going to the theatre, Harry; that’s where 
you’re going,” 

“To the theatre I” echoed Harry, in affected surprise. 
“ Why, the girl has lost her senses ; where would I get 
money to go to the theatre, even if I wished it ? I aVt 
master of any money ?” he added with bitter emphasis. 
“ Father takes good care of that !” 

“Dear me, but you’re innocent,” said Eliza, “just as if 
I didn’t hear all that passed ; now you needn’t be playing 
trieks on father ; pretending you want a new book, or 
something like that.” 

Harry saw there was no use trying to conceal the fact, 
so he applied himself to convince Eliza that it was no 
harm for him to go to the theatre ; most of the boys in 
the school went, and they would think it mean of him not 
to go now and then. As it was, they did make fun of 
him sometimes for being so stingy about his money, for 
they wouldn’t believe him that he had none. They were 
just then passing a confectioner’s shop, and Harry all at 
once remembered that he had a sixpence in his pocket. 
This sixpence judiciously expended on candy, w'as the 
most conclusive argument of all, and did more to over- 
come Eliza’s scruples than all her brother’s eloquence. 
She consented to keep the secret “ for that one time,” on 
condition that the like was never done again. Harry put 
his tongue ip bis cheek, and promised. 

Towards nightfall, Harry watched his opportunity 
when his father was alone in the store, and asked him for 
half a dollar to buy a new dictionary. “ Why,” said his 
father, “ I thought you had one.” 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 61 

Oh, no, father, I have not.” 

‘‘Well, it strikes me that I bought you one myself that 
time that I bought the book of maps.” 

“ The Atlas, you mean, father ; oh, no, it was a new 
rhetoric.” 

“Well, well; here's the half dollar anyhow; go and 
get the dictionary, and don’t be bothering me any more. 
Mind and take care of it, though.” 

In half an hour after, Harry was entertaining Zach 
Thomson, and some others of his companions, with the 
account of his successful stratagem, and was well pleased 
to hear them confess that none of themselves could have 
done it better. “ I guess you were too smart for the old 
man,” observed Silas Green, a little urchin of some twelve 
or thirteen. “But, then, you know, h^s a Paddy, and it 
a’n’t to be expected that he’d know as much ‘as we do.” 

“ You’d best keep a civil tongue in your head, Silas 
Green. My father’s no more a fool than any one else. 
I guess he knows about as much as your father does ! If 
you speak so again of him. I’ll give you something to 
remember.” 

“ Why, I meant no offence, Harry,” said Silas, apolo- 
getically. “ I didn’t say anything ill of you, did I ?” 

“ No, but it’s all the same when you said it of my 
father I” 

“ Never mind, lads, never mind,” said Zach, in a tone 
of authority ; “ this is no time for squabbling. Are you 
all ready now ?” The boys answered in the affirmative. 
“ Hurrah then, for the Bowery. Let us be ofif/v/e‘ll have 
hard work to get in, even as it is.” 

Half an hour more and Harry was Icaiiing over the 
front of the upper gallery, in the Bowery theatre, heart 
and soul intent on the wild exploits of Fra> Diavolo, drink 


62 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


ing in with delight the fierce eloquence of the brigand 
chief, and learning, under his auspices, to confound right 
and wrong, vice and virtue. It was a great epoch in 
Harry’s life. He had never before witnessed a stage re- 
presentation, and the effect was electrical, pervading the 
whole frame, heart, and mind. He forgot that there was 
any other world than the one before him, and wished that 
he could live for ever where he then was. Bat alas I the 
play came to an end ; the curtain fell, and the spell was 
broken. 

“Is it all over?” asked Harry, in a tone of mingled 
hope and fear. 

“ Oh, no !” replied Zachary, “ we’re to have the after- 
piece yet. Will you wait for it ?” 

Harry knew nothing of after-pieces, but he guessed he 
would wait to see it all. It was early yet, he supposed. 
Great was his surprise when he heard a person near him 
say to another “it is half-past ten.” With that, there 
came up visions of storms at home, of paternal correction 
and maternal chiding, and Harry was forced to quit that 
scene of bliss much to his regret. 

“ Why, surely, you a’n’t a-going ?” whispered Zach. 

“ Yes, I daren’t stay any longer. I didn’t think it was 
so late.” 

“You daren’t — eh?” and his companions laughed. 
“ Why, I guess you’re come to the years of discretion — 
a’n’t you ?” ‘ 

“ I don’t know, but father would kill me if I staid any 
later ; as it is I’m afraid to go home ?” 

“ Well, only think !” — “ Why do tell I” “ You a’n’t in 
earnest, are you ?” 

Such were the exclamations with which the boys return- 
ed his good night, and as Harry left the theatre with all its 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 63 , 

brilliant lights and beautiful scenery, and its thousands of 
happy faces, he could not help saying to himself with a 
heavy sigh: “It’s well for them; I wish I were my 
own master as they are 1 — what can be the reason that 
they have so much of their own way and I so little of 
mine ?” 

When he got home, he found, to his great relief, that 
his father had gone to bed. His mother was sitting up 
for him, whiling away the time darning stockings ; but 
her pale face and heavy eyes showed that her heart was 
ill at ease. Harry’s cautious tap on the front door was 
quickly answered, and the mother’s first impulse was to say 
“ thank God !” But checking herself, she put on as seri- 
ous a face as she well could, and asked how dare he stay 
out till that hour, or where he had been ? 

“ Hush, mother, don’t speak so loud I where’s father ?” 

“ He’s in bed this hour — where you ought to be, too I 
What in the world kept you out so late ?” 

Harry hesitated ; he had never been in the habit of 
excusing himself by falsehood, yet he dared not tell whtrt 
he had been. 

“ I was at — at my uncle Tim’s.” 

“ Don’t tell me a lie, sir — you were not at your uncle 
Tim’s. Your uncle and the boys were here till nine o’clock. 

I know very well where you were ; you were at the 
theatre — Eliza told me all, so you needn’t deny it.” 

“ And does father know ?” 

“No, indeed, he does not — if he did, it isn’t in his bed 
he’d be, take my word for it. Eliza didn’t tell even me, 9 
poor child, till after your father was gone to bed, and that 
she saw me getting so uneasy. And itwas tlie sorrowful 
news for me to hear, God help me ! after all that Father 
Power said last Sunday week about people going to 


64 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


theatres, or letting their children go. I’m sure and cer- 
tain, if your father knew you were at the theatre, not to 
speak of the trick you played on him about the dictionary, 
he wouldn’t leave a whole bone in your body. But it’s 
them companions of yours that are leading you astray — 
I see that plain enougli ; and if God hasn’t said it, they’ll 
bring you to an ill end I” 

“Well, mother,” said Harry soothingly, “only keep it 
from father’s ears for this time, and I’ll never do the like 
again. Won’t you, now ?” 

“ I’ll not promise ; you’re well deserving of a beating.” 

“ And if I get the beating, I promise you it will do me 
no good. You may look at me as hard as you like. I 
don’t care. If father gets in a passion and gives me a 
‘ walloping’ as he says himself. I’ll just go to the theatre 
and everywhere else as often as I get the chance. So you 
may take your choice.” And so saying, he took up his 
lamp to go to bed. 

“ Well, but what will you say when your father asks 
where you were ?” 

“ Oh, never mind that, mother ; I can easily manage 
that part of it ; good night I” 

“ Good night, my son, may the Lord keep you on the 
right road I and’it’s you that’s off- of it already,” she said 
within herself, as she slowly ascended the stairs. “ Oh, 
then. Miles Blake, Miles Blake, but you have much to 
answer for 1 God forgive you this night, and bring you to 
a sense of your error I I’m afraid nobody else can ! — them 
notions of wordly interest are so rooted in your mind ! 
God help you, poor man, and me along with you, though 
the fault’s not mine I” 

Kext morning, Harry got a severe reprimand from his 
father for being out so late. “Where were ycu, at all ?” 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 65 


said he, after he had lectured him to his heart’s content. 
WherjR did you spend your evening, my good boy ?’’ 

At Mr. Thomson’s, sir. Zach Thomson, and Silas 
Green, and I were making maps, sir, the whole evening.’^ 

“ Making maps ? — are you sure that’s what you were 
doing ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir, quite sure.’^ Harry was busy polishing 
his boots, and the exertion accounted for the otherwise 
suspicious blush which overspread his face, not yet brazen- 
ed enough to conceal honest shame. 

Now Miles looked up to Mr. Thomson as a man of good 
standing in society ; he kept a wholesale and retail 
grocery store, and Miles was often indebted to him for 
some hundreds of dollars at a time ; he was, on the 
whole, a kind-hearted, good sort of man, and Miles always 
found him an easy creditor. This was all well known to 
Harry, and it furnished him with an excellent pretext. 
His mother and Eliza exchanged significant glances, and 
the former held up her hands in mute astonishment, draw- 
ing back a little behind her husband ; but Miles himself 
became all at once quite composed. 

“ Oh, if that’s the way of it, Harry, I forgive you for 
this time, I was afraid you might be taking up with bad 
company, but I’m sure you’ll see nothing bad or low at 
Mr. Thomson’s. They’re such a respectable family, and 
so are the Greens too, that it’s very well for you to keep 
in with them. I hope none of them does be at you about 
your religion, Harry T’ 

“ Is it them, father ? Why, you wouldn’t hear a word 
about religion with them in twenty years. Neither Zach 
Thomson, nor Silas Green, nor Joe Smith— you kuow 
Joe Smith, sir— don’t you ?— his father keeps the large 
hat store, corner of Howard street and Broadway ?” 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Q6 


“ Yes, yes, Harry, I know him ; a very nice man he is.” 
“ And Joe’s just as nice, sir. As I was saying,, you’d 
never hear one of them at all running down Papists like 
Sam Herrick, or Mark Edwards, or any of that set. 
They don’t mind if a fellow is a Catholic, so long as he 
pleases them every other way.” 

“ Still and all,” said his mother, “ I’d rather, for my 
part, see you taking up with Catholic boys. Let these 
lads be ever so good, they’re hardly fit company for you. 
Why can’t you go with your cousins, or Mrs. Reilly’s boy, 
or the young Sheridans ?” 

“ Hut, tut, Nelly, don’t be making a fool of yourself I” 
said her husband sharply. “ Isn’t it always better for a 
boy to make acquaintances with them that’s above — not 
below him ! I wonder at a woman of your sense to talk 
so. The Sheridans and young Reilly indeed ! It’s no 
great things to keep in with them any day ; the likes of 
them are as plenty as blackberries ; but it is not so with 
these other boys : there’s some credit in getting in with 
them, and besides, when they all grow up to manhood, they 
can give Harry a lift that will serve him well in business.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Blake, piqued in her turn at the 
slighting way in which he spoke of her friends ; “ they 
can give him a lift sure enough — it's more likely that 
they’ll lift him to the gallows than to anything else. 
Lord save us, but you’re getting high in the world your- 
self, when you turn up your nose at the Reillys and Sheri- 
dans ; and the Flanagans, too, I’ll warrant, only for 
shame’s cause ; it's well it becomes you. Miles Blake.” 

“ Keep your temper, Mary,” said Miles laughing, “ I’m 
sure I meant no harm ; people needn’t be putting on a 
cap that doesn’t fit them. Go oflf to school, children.” 
When they were gone, Mrs. Blake again attacked her 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 6t 


husband. “Well, Miles, if I was in your place, it isn’t 
with Zach Thomson or the like of him I’d let Harry take 
up I” 

“ I suppose not, Mary — Tom Reilly or Mike Sheridan 
would do well enough for your taste !” 

“And aren’t they as well to be seen as any of their 
neighbors ? I’m sure they’re as good father and mother’s 
children as ever a Thomson or Green in the city — ay I and 
far better for that matter, for we know they have good 
Christians for their forebearers and that’s what none of 
your respectable people can say. Respectable people 
indeed ! just as if it wasn’t the best of all respectability 
to love and serve God in the true faith I If you knew as 
much as I know of them very lads, you wouldn’t let 
Harry next or nigh them.” 

“ Why, what bad do you know of them 1” inquired 
Miles, with a shade of anxiety in his manner. 

“ I know little good of them. Miles ! and I tell you 
over again that they’ll be the ruin of Harry if he keeps 
with them much longer.” 

“ Well, I protest, Mary, I never thought you were so 
unreasonable. Now, you know very well that it’s proud 
you ought to be to see your son taking up with the sons 
of wealthy, respectable men, like Mr. Thomson and Mr. 
Green.” 

“ No, I’m not the least proud of it. Miles Blake, and I 
tell you it’s all the worse for Harry the wealthier their 
fathers are, for they have always a pocketful of money 
and can do just what they like with it. Mind my words, 
if you let Harry keep their company, he must have money, 
let it come from where it will, and he’ll get a-going to the 
theatre, and everywhere but where he ought to go.” 

“ To the theatre, Mary ? why you’re raving as sure as a 


68 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


gun. Do you think the boy would dare to go to any such 
place without my knowledge ?” 

“ Maybe yes, and maybe no,” said Mrs. Blake with 
emphasis. “Your ‘respectable people^ all go to such 
places, ay, men, women, and children of them. If you 
want Harry to grow up an honest, industrious man, and a 
good Christian, you’ll keep him away from these boys 
altogether.” 

“ But how can I do it, when they’re all schoolfellows of 
his ?” 

Mrs. Blake smiled. “ Ay, there it is, you see — they’re 
all schoolfellows — and whose fault is that. Miles ? But 
here I am, clattering away and has to go to market yet. 
Just think of what 1 was saying, Miles,” she added, turn- 
ing back from the door with her basket in her hand ; 
“ the thing has gone far enough already, if it goes any 
further, all the art of man can’t cure it.” So saying, she 
went out, leaving Miles to his own reflections. At first 
it seemed as though Mary’s reasoning had brought con- 
viction to his mind ; he thrust his hands into his breeches 
’ pockets and walked backw’ards and forwards across the 
small room, uttering an occasional “ Humph,” — “ Perhaps 
so now and then he would stop to take a survey of what 
was passing in the shop, through a pane of glass in the 
door, and at length, seeing some “ good customer ” enter 
the outer door, he “ flung care to the winds,” saying to 
himself as he hastily opened the door, “ Mr. Thomson is a 
better friend to me than either Tim Flanagan or Father 
Power, and I’m not going to offend him for any of them. 
He has often told me that he liked Catholics who send 
their children to the Ward Schools, because it shows 
they’re not bigoted ; that was a hint to me, I’m sure, so I’ll 
just let the children stay where they are, for a time longer.” 


) 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 69 

When the afternoon school was over, Eliza asked her 
mother if she wouldn’t let her go to spend the evening 
with Jane and Arabella Thomson. “ Harry and I had to 
promise that we’d go before we could get away from 
them.” 

And what business had you to promise without asking 
my leave ?” said her mother. You shan’t go, that’s all 
about it.” 

“ Well, mother, it’s too bad, now, and we never asked 
you to let us spend an evening anywhere except at uncle 
Tim’s. If you’d just let us go this once, we wouldn’t ask 
to go any more. It would look real mean if we didn’t 
keep our word. Ah do, mother, let us go this once — 
only this once !” 

Mrs. Blake could not resist the pleading look with 
which Eliza accompanied these words, so she consented, 
though all against her will. “ But mind you must be 
home here by eight o’clock at furthest — if you’re one 
minute later your father will go for you, and then you’ll 
see what you’ll get.” 

“ Oh, never fear, mother, but we’ll be home in good 
time ; never let us out again, if we don’t.” 

So Harry and Eliza went off in high' spirits about five 
o’clock, “ dressed in their Sunday clothes.” They were 
kindly welcomed by'the elders of the Thomson family, 
and had, as they said themselves, a “ real good time ’’ of 
it. 

Games of various kinds, and all the “plays” known to 
any of the party, were tried in turns, and all went off 
pleasantly, though Eliza did feel somewhat awkward at 
times when Zach Thomson made too free. It was both 
new and strange to her to see boys and girls lomping 
together, and she could not help thinking from time to 


10 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

time, “my cousins or their playmates never have such 
plays as these. I do not like all this kissing,” but her 
bashfulness was so ridiculed, even by her brother, that 
she thought she must “ try and get over it.” By the time 
tea was announced, Eliza had got over a good deal of her 
“ awkwardness,” as the others called her modesty, and 
really began to enjoy the wild romping going on. Harry 
was just in his element, for he was at all times lively and 
fond of fun. 

At tea, Mr. and Mrs. Thomson were exceedingly kind 
to the young Blakes. Mrs. Thomson paid Eliza a hand- 
some compliment on her success at school. “Miss Davi- 
son tells me,” said she, “ that she has no such girl in her 
school as you are. I only wish she could say as much for 
Jane and Arabella.” 

Eliza blushed and stammered out something about Miss 
Davison’s being very kind, indeed. 

“ And what do you say to my young friend Harry, my 
dear?” said Mr. Thomson. “If all Zach says of him be 
true he is a first-rate fellow. I guess we shall see him in 
the Senate some day. Let me help you to some cold 
tongue.” 

Harry was hungry after his afternoon’s play, and began 
at once to do justice to the tongue ; but Eliza, with 
trembling haste whispered in his ear, “ Harry, Harry, do 
you forget that this is Friday ?” “ Hush, hush,” he 

replied, his face all in a glow, “ don’t let any one hear you. 
They don’t know anything here about keeping Friday. 
You needn’t take any if you don’t like, but don’t tell 
them the reason, or they’ll laugh at us.” 

Eliza did as she was bid, but she told Harry on their 
way home, that if ever she saw him eat meat again on 
Friday, she’d tell Father Power. 


THE TREE BEGINS TO BEAR FRUIT. 71 


“ Bah I can’t I tell him myself when I go to confession ? 
but say nothing about it now — promise me that you will 
not ?” 

“ I’ll promise no such thing,” replied Eliza. “ You 
deserve to get severely punished.” 

But Harry knew well how to manage his sister, and 
before they reached home he wheedled her into the desired 
promise. The secret was kept from father and mother, 
and that was all that Harry wanted. 


72 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER y. 

ST. PETER^S SCHOOL. — A VISIT FROM THE PRIEST. 

It was the custom in St. Peter^s School, as in all 
Catholic Schools, properly so called, to say the Catechism 
every day before any of the other lessons. Those who 
knew their cathechism well were taught to serve mass, and 
as there was only a certain number eligible for that ofiSce, 
the boys were always ambitious of the honor. Mr. 
Lanigan had always a good class of boys well instructed 
in their religion, and these served mass by turns in St 
Peter’s Church. If any were known to commit a grave mis- 
demeanor, such as lying, disobeying his parents or teacher, 
cursing, or swearing, he was forthwith deprived of his 
right to wait upon the priest, and the penalty was con- 
sidered so severe that it was quite sufficient to deter the 
boys from any glaring misconduct. They had a whole- 
some fear of Mr. Lanigan, who knew how to administer 
the birch, when necessary, as well as any man within ten 
square miles of him. To do him justice, it was only when 
all other remedies failed, that ho made use of manual 
correction, but when forced to do it, he did it in earnest. 
This was well known to the boys, and it had its weight, 
undoubtedly, in keeping them “ to their trumps,*’ as Mr. 


ST. PETER ’S SCHOOL. 


*13 


Lanigan used to say, but there was another motive to the 
full as strong. This was the influence of Dr. Power, at 
that time and for many years after, pastor of St. Peter’s 
, Church. Dr. Power was indeed a man “of many gifts,” 
: endowed with a strong and piercing intellect ; a giant in 
^ the arena of controversy, a powerful and eloquent preach- 
er, yet mild and affable in his demeanor. Children were 
K the special objects of his affectionate solicitude, and his 
f. winning gentleness of manner made him quite a favorite 
f. with them. Like the great Apostle of the Gentiles, he 
i could make himself, “all things to all men” and was as 
i much beloved as he was feared and respected. Of him it 
was said that, in his presence, 

“ Long ruling prejudice abashed became, 

And error shrieked to see her empire die ; 

And bigotry, few other minds could tame, 

Repentant wept beneath his meek reply.” ♦ 

Such was the man who presided over the destinies of 
St. Peter’s School at the period of which I write. He 
was even then a doctor of divinity, but the people amongst 
whom he labored like better to call him Father Power — 
a thing very common amongst the Irish, who, with their 
characteristic and most filial attachment to their clergy, 

' merge all honorary and scholastic titles in the patriarchal 
one of Father. 

Most of the boys were about as orderly and well-dis- 
posed as boys brought up in a large city could be. Still 
there were some turbulent spirits amongst them who, at 
times, bred disturbance in the little community and could 
only be kept in proper subjection by an occasional appli- 
. cation of the birch, aforesaid. One of these was Mike 

I Joha Augustus Shea — Litita on the Very- Rev. Jjohn Power,. 

\ 4 




74 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Sheridan, a scion of the Sheridan family, who claimed 
relationship with our friend Mrs. Blake, and her brother 
Tim. Mike was a wild, hot-headed fellow, full of fun, 
and delighting in the perpetration of all manner of antic 
tricks. . Yet Mike was good-natured almost to a fault, 
and could not keep anger against any human being for 
one half-hour at a time. He could learn very vyell when 
he liked, but that was not often, and, as a general thing, 
Mike' went to school without having looked at his lessons, 
and stood up in his class depending on the assistance of 
others who were more studious, to jprom^t him. And the 
boys, knowing this, were always ready and willing to do 
it (provided Mr. Lanigan’s eye was not on them), for 
Mike was a favorite with every one of his school-fellows. 
Mike was about the same age as Harry Blake ; that is, 
fifteen or thereabouts. He had a younger brother whose 
name was Peter, a shy, timid lad, wholly engrossed with 
his books, and looking up to Mr. Lanigan as the greatest 
potentate on earth, except Father Power. Then there 
was Tom Reilly, their cousin, a precocious genius of thir- 
teen, who, if he had been at almost any other school, 
would have thought himself a man, but Mr. Lanigan 
allowed no premature manhood in his dominions, so poor 
Tom was forced to remain a boy, much against his will. 

Before we proceed any further with our story, let us 
take another peep into Mr. Lanigan’s alma mater. It 
was a bright sunshiny morning about the beginning of 
May. Catechism was just over, and the first class was 
called up for geography. The boys got over their repeti- 
tion tolerably well, and Mr. Lanigan proceeded to ask 
them some questions. There sat Mr. Lanigan in his suit 
of sober grey, “ with spectacles on nose,” preparing his 
throat by divers “ hems,” as he glanced his eye along the 


ST. PETER ’S SCHOOL. 


75 


line to reconnoitre his forces ; and there stood the boys 
watching their liege lord, with eager, anxious eyes, some 
of them glancing at each other with imploring gestures, 
as much as to say, “ be sure and help me.” 

“ Ahem I” said Mr. Lanigan, by way of preface “ your 
lesson to-day was on Spain. Tell me, Lawrence Boylan, 
what kind of a country is Spain ?” 

“ It is a large and very important country of 
Europe. Its soil is generally fertile, though many parts 
of it are overrun with woods. With the exception of 
Switzerland, it is the most mountainous country in 
Europe.” 

“Very good, Lawrence, very good, indeed. Now, 
Mike Sheridan, the next is yours : what is the character 
of the Spaniards !” 

“ The Spaniards, sir, are — are grave — grave and ” 

“ Go on, sir !” 

Mike looked around in distress, but no one dared speak, 
as Mr. Lanigan’s face boded no good. 

“Go on, sir, I say, what is the character of the 
Spaniards ?” 

All at once Mike thought he had it, and hastened to 
get out the bright idea before it vanished. “ They are 
grave, stately and formal in their manners, but lazy and 
indolent ” 

“ Sjtop there, Mike, you’ve gone far enough,” said Mr. 
Lanigan, with a smile which he could not repress ; “ I 
suppose, if I let you go on, you would make out the poor 
Spaniards to be all that their enemies and ours choose to 
rej)resent them. Go on to the next ; speak out, Edward 
Flanagan, don’t be afraid.” 

“ The Spaniards, sir, are grave, stately, and formal in 
then* manners ; they are brave, generous, temperate and 


*^6 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

hospitable, and — and possess an elevation of mind” — 
Edward began to hesitate. 

“ Go on, Edward, you are right so far. Well, the 
Spaniards possess an elevation of mind — ” 

Thus encouraged, Edward went on fluently : “ which 
places them above the commission of a dishonorable 
action.” 

“Well done, Edward ; go up, my boy. Kow Mike, 
see what a different character you were going to give 
them. One would think you had been learning geography 
at Mr. Simpson’s school. Tom Reilly, can you name 
some the principal cities in Spain ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Tom briskly, “ Madrid, Saragossa, 
Toledo, Salamanca, Grenada, Bilboa, Pampeluna, Yalla- 
dolid ” 

“Yerygood, Tom; that will do. Now, as you have 
done so well, can you tell me what it was that made 
Salamanca and Yalladolid so famous, for they were very 
famous for many ages throughout Europe ?” ^ 

“ Certainly, sir,” said Tom, “ they were famous for 
their great strength and magnificence, and ” 

“No such thing, Tom.” The boys all tittered at Tom’s 
mistake. “ Can any one tell ? No ! Well, I’ll tell you. 
Those two cities were celebrated because of their having 
each a great university or college, to which students were 
sent from all parts of the civilized world. They were two 
of the greatest collegiate institutions the world ever saw. 
That was very good, you see, for times which the lying 
Protestant historians call the dark ages. Well, boys, 
can any ot you tell me for what Saragossa is remark- 
able ?” There was no ansvver. 

“ I see none of you know, and indeed I hardly expected 
you should, because it is not mentioned in your geography. 


ST. PETER ’S SCHOOL. 


77 


But mind what I’m going to tell you, so that you can 
answer me the next time I put the question. Saragossa 
is remarkable for having one of the most famous shrines 
of the Blessed Virgin, called Our Lady of the Pillar. 
Which of you can tell me what a shrine is V’ 

All were silent for a moment, when Peter Sheridan 
timidly raised his voice, blushing for shame at -his own 
boldness : “A shrine, sir, is a place where people go to 
pray when they want to ask some particular favor, and 
where miracles are performed through the intercession of 
some saint.” 

Mr. Lanigan clapped his right hand on his right knee, 
a custom he had when agreeably excited. “Well done, 
little, Peter, well done I bless my soul, where did you find 
that out ?” 

“ I read it, sir, in that little book you were so kind as 
to give me last week when I got head in the grammar 
class.” 

“ Now, boys, there’s an example for you,” cried Mr. 
Lanigan exultingly. “ It’s some use to give books to a 
boy like Peter ; he not only reads his books, but remem- 
bers what he reads. Come to me after school, Peter, my 
little man, and I’ll give you a nice picture. I say, Tom 
Reilly, how is Spain bounded ?” 

Tom began with his usual flippancy. “ Spin is bounded 
north by the Mediterranean sea ” 

“ Wrong, wrong ; go on to the next.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom, “ I think you’ll 
find that I'm right, if you’ll please to look at the map. 
Just look if the Mediterranean isn’t right over Spain.” 

“ Why, you little Tom Thumb of a fellow,” said the 
master, eyeing him through his spectacles with an affecta- 
tion of superlative contempt; “do you pretend to 


78 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

imagine that you can teach me? Upon my credit, if the 
Mediterranean is not ‘just over Spain, ^ I’ve a great mind 
to put you over the desk, and thrash some of that self- 
conceit out of you. What a pretty fellow you are, to be 
sure ! Now mark my words, Tom Reilly ! never dare, 
while you are in my school, to give your own opinion con- 
trary to mine, or insist that you are right when I have 
pronounced you wrong ; if you do, up you go, so sure as 
my name is Lanigan I I think your hinder end ought to 
remember the last admonition I gave you. Beware of 
deserving another ; while you are under my tuition, you 
must be subject to me, sir ; do you hear 

“ Yes, sir,” said Tom, sheepishly, and not daring to lift 
his eyes. 

“Now, Edward Flanagan,” said the master, “do you 
tell me the boundaries of Spain ?” 

Edward answered correctly, and then Mr. Lanigan 
made him point them out on the map, to Tom’s great 
mortification. That was a lesson that he never forgot, 
and he used to say in after years that “ it was worth gold 
to him.” So it was, and better than any amount of gold 
could have been. 

The class was then dismissed. In the afternoon, Mr. 
Lanigan took Peter Sheridan to see Father Power, and 
the little fellow’s heart was rejoiced when the priest patted 
him on the head, and bade God bless him, after hearing 
Mr. Lanigan’s kind report. 

“ God bless you, Peter, God bless you. You are laying 
the foundation of a good and useful life. The acquisition 
of knowledge is said to be the most honorable pursuit of 
youth, but knowledge when acquired is only a curse if it 
be not guided and controlled by Christian principles. 
Remember that, Peter. It is very good to be a learned 


ST. PETER ’S SCHOOL. 


79 


man, but it is still better to be a Christian man ; if you 
can be both together, so much the better. You may go 
home now, Peter, and here is a shilling for you to buy 
cakes.” 

So Peter made his bow as well as bashfulness would let 
him, and made the best of his way home, thinking all the 
time what he was to do with his bright new shilling. 

“ Father Power told me to buy cakes with it,” said he to 
himself, as he stopped in front of a confectioner^s window. 

“ Pd like well enough to have some of them nice cakes, 
but then I’d be giving some to Mike, and some to little 
Annie, and some to father and mother, and then we’d all 
eat them up, and then there would be an end to Father 
Power’s bright shilling ; but if I bought a book with it, 
I’d have it to look at and to read. I think I’ll buy a 
book.” 

Poor Peter felt hungry at the time, and the cakes in 
the window looked temptingly nice, but Peter’s philosophy 
was stronger than his appetite, so he walked resolutely 
away, 

“ Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.” 

There was a bookseller’s shop on his way home, and 
Peter went in ; but it was no easy matter for him to suit 
himself in a book “ for the low price of one shilling.” 

Peter had a wholesome distrust of Pjotestants books, 
and yet h e could not w ell distinguish thenxfrom the others^ 
The shopman showed him a number of books, such as 
boys generally purchase, Peter now and then reminding 
him tliat he could not go higher than a shilling. Some- 
times, when the title on the cover of one struck his fancy, 
he would turn it round and round, scrutinizing it closely, 
and saying to himself, “ I wish I knew whether it was a 


80 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Protestant book or not I” At last, he happened on 
Robinson Crusoe, a cheap edition, in a paper cover, and, 
as he had often heard his father speak of it, he said to 
himself : “ Pm sure it can’t be a bad book, or father 
wouldn’t speak so well of it.” 

“ What’s the price of this one, if you please, sir ?” said 
Peter, timidly. 

“ You may have it for a shilling, though it ought to be 
one and sixpence.” 

Peter thanked the obliging shopman, and walked away 
with his book in his pocket, thinking every minute an hour, 
till he got home to show his newly-acquired treasure. 

His parents were to the full as much gratified as he was 
himself, when he told his artless story, and exultingly pro- 
duced his prize. “ Now, Mike,” said their father, address- 
ing his elder son, “ how does it happen that you never 
get such rewards as Peter.” 

“ I don’t know, father,” replied Mike, with his usual 
blunt sincerity, “ I suppose it’s because Peter lays his mind 
to his books, and I don’t. You know mother says 1 have 
no head for the learning, so it isn’t my fault — is it, mother ? 
Ain’t I just like your own brother Terry, that you say 
could never get any further than reading his prayer- 
book.” 

“ Get out, you blockhead,” said the mother, pretending 
to look for a slender stick, which she sometimes used on 
Mike’s back, “get out, or Pll break every bone in your 
body. If you were only as quick at the learning as you 
are at your tricks, wo’d have another story to tell. 
Daniel” (to her husband), “ haven’t you something for 
him to do out-bye ?” 

“ Ay, indeed have I,” said the father, turning away to 
hide a smile, “ any boy that won’t learn, must be made 


8T. PETER^S SC HOOL. 


81 


work. Come along, Mike, my boy, and rub down one or 
two of the horses.” 

Daniel Sheridan was a carter by trade, and kept six or 
eight horses, with as many men, constantly employed. 

He was an upright, honest, man, somewhat thick-head- 
ed, indeed, but kind-hearted, and willing to oblige when- 
ever it was in his power. In his younger days he ha(L 
been rather wild and fond of taking a glass, but of late 
years he had left off drinking, and become well to do in j 
the world. As he used to say himself, ‘‘ he had always 1 
something by him for a sore foot,* and never knew the 
want of a shilling, thanks be to God.” 

Leaving Daniel and his son hard at work in the stable, 
and Peter reading Robinson Crusoe to his mother, while 
she washed up her dinner-dishes, let us return to Miles 
Blake and his family, whom we do not wish to forget. 

Harry had been to the theatre several times, unknown, 
of course, to his father, contriving to elude his mother’s 
suspicions by some specious pretext. But Eliza began to 
suspect the truth, and, from certain little circumstances 
which came under her observation, she feared that the 
money thus spent did not come honestly into Harry’s 
possession. She could not bear to tell her father what 
she suspected, or even her mother, fearing the conse- 
quences for her brother ; but she determined to speak to 
himself. At that time Eliza was still a prudent, discreet 
girl, full of kindness and good-nature, and tenderly attach- 
ed to her owm family. 

“ Harry,” said she, as they walked home together one 
afternoon, “I should like to know where you get all those 
cakes and sweeties, and fruit that I see you have ?” 


♦ For any emergency. 

4 ^ 


82 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Harry blushed up to the eyes, but he tried to put it off 
with a laugh. “ Where do I get them, Eliza ? — why, some 
I buy of the old woman at the corner, and some at the 
confectioner’s.” ^ 

“ That’s not what I mean,” said Eliza,' “ I know well 
enough where you buy them ; but I want to know how 
you get the money.” 

“Well, I guess you will want to know,” retorted • 
Harry, angrily ; “ if you ain’t one of the most inquisitive 
girls I ever knew I” 

“ It’s no wonder I’d be inquisitive, Harry, for I’m 
afraid father’s money-drawer knows something about it, 
if I don’t. It’s not for nothing you get all those nice 
things, not to speak of going to the theatre, nights, as I 
know you do ! I see you’re going to deny it, but you 
needn’t, Harry ; it’s no use.” 

“ How do you know that I go to the theatre ?” said 
Harry, doggedly. 

“ No matter, I know it, that’s enough for you to know ; 
and I’m just going to tell mother this very day.” 

Just then Sam Herrick passed them by. There was at 
all times “ a lurking devil in his eye,’’ a look of sly, cold 
malice, unnatural in a boy of his age, for Sam was not 
more than fourteen. He had with him Ezechiel West, an 
overgrown lad of sixteen, whose Saxon features well ac- 
corded with his thick-set, burly figure. 

“ Hillo, Blake !” said* Herrick, with a coarse laugh, 
“have you been to confession lately ? I guess you’ll have 
a pretty long score to get wiped off next time you go — 
eh. West ?” 

“I rather think so,” was the reply, “ he’ll hardly tell 
all. I guess he’d better get Zach to help him. I say, 
Blake, your governor must be a great fool. Zach says he 


ST. Peter’s school. 


83 


gives yon no fmids, and yet never suspects yon of tipping, 
his sliiners. He’s a great old coon, I guess.” 

“ Why, how could he see anything clear ?” cried Sara, 
with his bitter sneer, “ ain’t he kept in a fog all the timey 
by that ere feller up at the church. Papists can’t see \ 
things right clear like other folks. Can they. West ?” 

Before West could answer, Harry had felled Herrick 
to the ground, with a blow of his clenched fist, whereupon 
West took to his heels, having no fancy for fighting when 
it came to hard knocks, though he could bluster and 
swagger with any boy in the city. 

“ What’s your hurry, Ezechiel ?” said Harry, laughing, 

“ Can’t you wait awhile ?” 

But Ezechiel was already out of hearing, and Harry 
drew the terrified Eliza away in the direction of their home, 
leaving his prostrate foe to be picked up by a gentleman 
who was passing at the time. 

“ Terrible fellows these Papists are,” said the stranger, 
with a smile. ** Now, that is what I call an effective 
argument.” 

Sir ?” inquired Sam, as he stood shaking the dust 
from off his clothes. 

“ I say, my young friend, the old felkr up at the churchy 
couldn’t have knocked down a Protestant in better style 
— could he ?” 

“ So you heard what I said to Blake,” said Sam, dog- 
gedly. “ Well I don’t care who hears me, not a brass but- 
ton ; the priest is an old feller, and I have heard folks call 
him wwse than that. I hate priests ; I do, and so would 
you, sir, if you had heard half as much about them.” 

“ I have heard more about them than you seem to sup- 
pose,” said the gentleman with the same quiet smile, “ but 
God' forbid that I should hate any of ray fellow-creatures. 


84 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Good afternoon, my lad ; let me advise you for the fut-cre 
to let that boy alone ; you see he has a .peculiar way of 
settling a question with the arm rather than the tongue. 
Keep clear of him, then, if you value your bodily 
safety.” 

Sam saw at a glance that the gentleman was mocking 
him, and somehow he felt rather uncomfortable beneath 
his keen searching eye. He cut his acquaintance, there- 
fore, rather suddenly, and speedily turned down a neigh- 
boring alley, without as much as thanking the gentleman 
for his trouble. An old Irish applewoman, who had 
been an amused spectator of the whole scene, burst into 
a hearty laugh when she saw Sam scamper off after his 
valiant comrade. “Well, if that wasn’t one of the 
puniest knock-downs I ever laid an eye on I God^s bless- 
in’ light down on you. Father Power, dear, but it’s your- 
self can take them to the fair at your aise, anyhow.” 

“ Oh I is it there you are, Molly ?” said Dr. Power, for 
he it was. “ How is business with you these times ?” 

“’Deed then, I can’t complain, thank God, and your 
reverence ; as long as I can get the bit to eat, and the 
rag to cover myself an’ the ould man, I’m well content.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it, Molly. A contented mind and a 
good conscience, generally go hand in hand.” 

“ Only that this is no place for your reverence to be seen 
talking with a poor old body like me,” said Molly, bend- 
ing over her table, and letting her voice fall almost to a 
whisper, “ I’d like to have a talk with your reverence 
about that same Harry Blake. It’s a thousand pities, 
sir, that his father lets him go to that blackguard school 
bey ant ; I’m sittin’ here the whole week round, an’ I see 
everything that’s goin’ on ; an’ mind I tell you, sir, that 
boy is in a fair way of goin’ to the devil. I ax your 


ST. PET ER’s school. 


85 


reverence^s pardon for sayiii’ such a word ! — it’s none of 
my business, to be sure, but still an’ all it goes to my 
heart to see the son of a dacent Irishman goin’ to the bad. 
Tell Mister Blake, sir; from me, that if he’s wise he’ll 
take his son from that school, an’ if he doesn’t do it soon, 
he’ll be too late.” 

“ I thank you, Molly, for your kind information,” said 
the priest, “ and will not fail to act upon it a,s soon as 
possible. To tell you the truth, I was just on my way to 
visit Mr. Blake on that same business. Good evening, and 
may God bless you !” 

“ An’ you, too, your reverence ! may the Lord spare 
you long to us I what would we do, at all, without you ?” 
This last query was addressed by Molly to herself, as she 
followed with her eye the receding form of the priest. 

Harry and Eliza had just got home, and were giving 
their father and mother an account of what had happened, 
when the shop-boy ran in to say that Father Power was 

without in the shop, wanting to see the master.” 

Miles hurrifed out to receive his honored visitor, while 
Mary glanced round the little parlor to see if everything 
was in it’s place. “ Eliza, put that pitcher in the closet,” 
said she to her daughter, “ and then sit down, you and 
Harry. Hush, now, not a word ; they’re coming in.” 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Blake ?” said Dr. Power, with 
that high-bred courtesy for which he was distinguished. 
“ And your young people ?” he added, quietly taking 
possession of a chair. 

“ All well, thanks to your reverence ; won’t you sit 
nearer the stove ?” 

“No, thank you, I prefer sitting here; I feel warn' 
after my walk. So, Harry, you have been practising you 
fist to-day,” he said, with a smile. 


86 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Harry looked surprised. “ Why, sir, how did yon come 
to know 

Dr. Power laughed. “Oh! I wasn’t quite twenty 
miles off when you knocked down your man so cleverly. 
I had no idea you were so good a pugilist, Harry.” 

Neither Miles nor his son understood the keen irony of 
the remark ; the son blushed, and looked exultingly at 
his mother ; the father took upon him to answer. 

“Why, yes, your reverence, Harry is as good a soldier 
as any boy in the city of his own age, I don’t care where 
the other is. Young as he is, he knows how to stand up 
for his religion as well as I could myself.” 

“ And pray, Mr. Blake, what do you call standing up 
for religion ?” said the priest, coolly. 

Blake was quite taken aback, and his wife gave a low 
cough, as much as to say, “ now, you’ll catch it.’’ 

“ What do I call standing up for religion repeated 
Miles. “ Why, sir, when boy or man is always ready 
with word or blow to silence any one that attacks his 
religion ; that’s what I call standing up for it.” 

“ Well, my friend, that is one way, certainly, of defend- 
ing your religion, but it is far from being the best way.” 

“ How is that, your reverence ?” 

“ I will tell you : the best and most efficacious way of 
defending your religion is to practise its duties and carry 
out its principles in all your actions. By doing so you 
will make your religion respected, without ever having 
occasion to strike a blow, whereas you may fight and 
squabble with your Protestant acquaintances, year after 
year, and find them at the end more inveterate than ever 
against you and your religion ; or rather, what you are 
pleased to call your religion. Such is precisely the case 
with Harry. I am much afraid that his religion, if he 


ST. Peter’s school. 


87 


ever had any, is either gone, or going fast in these angry 
discussions to which you expose him !” 

“ Father Power I” said Miles, with a raised voice and 
a flushed countenance, “ I respect you highly, sir, but I 
can’t let you go any further with such talk as that. I 
tell you, sir, that I’ve as much religion as any one else, 
and as for Harry, I’m sure and certain, he’d lose his life 
for his religion, just as I would myself.” 

“ All very fine, Mr. Blake I all very fine as far as it 
goes ; but as neither you nor Harry is likely to be calle^ 
on to die for your religion, don’t you think it would be 
well to learn to live for it ? I speak not now of yourself, 
my dear Mr. Blake ; that is not the object of my present 
visit, but I must insist on your removing your children 
from the baneful influence of Protestant teaching, and 
the companionship of Protestant children. I have repea- 
tedly spoken to you on this subject, and even obtained 
your promise some time ago that you would take your 
children from the common schools ; why is it that they 
still go there ?” 

Mrs. Blake here hastened to justify herself, “ Indeed, 
indeed. Father Power, it isn’t with my consent that they 
go to them, and I’m sure I’ve had many a hard tussle 
with Miles on that account. He says, sir, they learn 
better there than they would at any Catholic school.” 

“ Indeed ! and how do you know that, Mr. Blake ?” 

“ Because,” said Miles, trying to keep down his anger, 
because there’s too much time lost in Catholic schools with 
prayers and catechism and all such things. That’s the 
plain truth, Father Power, and I don’t care who hears it !” 

“Then, you don’t consider prayers and catechism 
cither useful or necessary ?” 

“ Yes I do— in their own place. The school-room is 


88' 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


not the place to learn either prayers or catechism ; they 
can be learned in church, or even at home.” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Blake, the school-room is just the 
place to learn everything that is to be learned. If reli- 
gion be excluded from the school-room, it will be excluded 
from the mind. Religion, my good sir, must be ever pre- 
sent with your children ; it must regulate and control 
their studies, their words, their actions — that is, if you 
wish them to grow up Christians ; if you are content to 
make them heathens or infidels, then you are quite right 
to do as you are doing. Mrs. Blake, would you have the 
goodness to leave us alone together, for a few minutes ?” 
and he glanced significantly towards the young people. 

“ Oh, certainly, your reverence I Come up stairs» 
children ?” Harry and Eliza exchanged looks of alarm, 
but they both followed their mother to one of the upper 
rooms. “ I’m sure he has heard something ?” whispered 
Harry to Eliza. 

“ Hush ! he’ll hear you,” said his sister in the same 
tone ; “ I wouldn’t be in your place for a dollar.” 

“ I don’t care — it’s none of his business. I wish he 
wouldn’t be coming here putting bad into father’s head 
against us.” 

“Are you aware, Mr. Blake,” said Dr. Power, “ that 
your son is in the habit of frequenting the theatre ?” 

“The theatre. Father Power ! No, sir, my boy has 
never been once to the theatre, that I know of.” 

“ But he has been there very many times, that you do 
not know of.” 

“ Impossible ! sir, impossible I How could he get 
money to go to the theatre — people don’t get in for noth- 
ing, do they ?” 

“ That is for you to find out, my friend,” said the priest 


ST. PETEK’s SCHOOL. 


89 


calmly ; then he added with a melanciioly smile, “ If you 
should discover that your son has been taking advantage 
of your credulity, and betraying your trust — that he has 
not much religion in his heart or mind, though a great 
deal at his finger-ends, you have no one to blame but 
yourself. Had you sent him to a Catholic school, from ^ 
his infancy, he might have spent half an hour, every day, 
at ‘ prayers and catechism but he would be, in all 
human probability, a dutiful, conscientious boy, a good 
sou, and a good Christian. Such are the children of your 
worthy brother-in-law, Tim Flanagan. Take all the boys 
attending St. Peter’s School, and though some of them 
may be a little wild, and fond of sport, yet, their sport 
will be boyish sport, not those forbidden pleasures in 
which precocious Protestant youth indulge ; you 
will find few amongst them disobedient, or refractory, 
while, on the contrary, the children of those Catholic 
fajiailies who, like you, patronized mixed schools, are with 
very few exceptions, growing up, without fear of God or 
man, despising their parents in their hearts, and becom- 
ing, from day to day, more reckless of duty, virtue and 
religion. Good evening, Mr. Blake ; if I have given you 
pain I am sorry for it ; but a cankering wound cannot 
be healed without being well probed. God grant you 
grace to profit by my admonitions ! I hope to see you 
again soon.’^ 

Miles was so confounded and embarrassed, that he could 
not get out a word, and before he had recovered his 
presence of mind, the priest was gone. 


90 


BLAKE 


AND FL ANAO A NS. 


CHAPTER YI. 

A FRIEND IN NEED. — A GENTLE REPRIMAND. 

“Well, Miles, what did Father Power say to you?'^ 
said Mrs. Blake, eagerly, as she ran, rather than walked, 
down stairs. 

“ Ay, you may well ask ! I suppose you know as well 
as I do, Mary,” returned her husband angrily. “ How 
does it happen, that this lad can go night after night, to 
the theatre, as it seems he does, without your knowing it ; 
or is«it possible that you’d connive at such doings ?” 

“Well, to tell you the truth. Miles, he did go once, 
not with my knowledge or consent, but I found it out 
before he came home ; — that was the night, you remember, 
that Tim and the boys were up here.” 

“ Yes, and the young villain said he was at Mr. Thom- 
son’s ! I see very well how it is. And it seems he makes 
a trade of it — he’s robbing me, the graceless vagabond — 
that’s what he is ! Come down here Harry ! — Go and 
get me that whip, Mary, that Dan Sheridan forgot the 
other evening !” 

“ For God’s sake. Miles,” said Mrs. Blake, imploringly, 
“don’t beat him this time. Forgive him this once, and 
I’ll go bail for him that he’ll never go next or nigh a 
theatre again I” 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


91 


“Get out of mv way, woman ; Pll give him a lesson 
that he’ll remember the longest day he has to live. Get 
me the whip, I tell you I Come down here, you young 
rap,” raising his voice to its highest pitch, “ come down, 
or I’ll go up for you.” 

Mrs. Blake made a great show of searching for the 
whip, but somehow it was not forthcoming. Harry made 
his appearance, followed by Eliza, the latter pale as 
death. 

“Well, now,” said Miles, fixing a withering look on 
his son, “ ain’t you a precious young scoundrel on my 
hands, and me never suspecting you of such tricks ? Not 
a word out of your head, now ! I see the lies coming up 
your throat ; but you may as w^ll swallow them down 
again. Mary, what are you about, that you don’t get me 
the whip ? I’ll teach the fellow that he’ll not dare to 
play off his pranks on me I He was making maps, to be 
sure, at Mr. Thomson’s.” 

“ Who is taking my name in vain here ?” said a voice 
from the store without, and Thomson himself opened the 
door, and walked in. 

Harry’s face brightened up ; Eliza hastily wiped away 
her tears, and Mrs. Blake gave up her fruitless search for 
the whip, to place a chair for Mr. Thomson. Miles alone 
stood his ground. 

“ Why, what on earth are you about here ?” asked Mr. 
Thomson, as he glanced from one to another. “ Is there 
anything wrong ?” 

“Yes, there is, Mr. Thomson,” said Miles quickly, 

“ there is something wrong, and very wrong.” And he 
proceeded to lodge his complaint. 

“ Oh, oh I” said Mr. Thomson, when he had finished 
his story, “ if that be all, there is no need for such a com- 


92 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


motion. Sit down, Miles, sit dowm ! Pm surprised that 
you’d make such a fuss for a mere trifle. We were all 
boys ourselves, my good friend ; why, there’s my Zach 
goes to the theatre most every evening, and yet I’m quite 
as anxious to bring him up well, as you can be about 
Harry. You know, my dear friend, that boys must have 
amusement, and if you don’t let them have it, they’ll take 
it ; that’s the fact. And then, the theatre is no such bad 
place for a boy to spend an evening in ; there is a gieat 
deal to be learned there. Come, come, Miles, forgive 
your son for this time.” 

“Well, but the money, Mr. Thomson,” said Blake, 
sullenly, “ he stole the money out of ray drawer I” 

“Well, suppose he did ; it was too bad, I grant you, 
but your whipping him will do no good. Harry, come 
Qver here, my lad ; if your father forgives you for this 
time, will you promise never to do the like again — that is, 
to take money without your father’s knowledge ?” 

“ I don’t value his promise — not one brass button,” said 
the father, “ he’d break it. I’m sure, the first opportunity.” 

“Well I now. Miles,” said Mr. Thomson, “I ask it of 
you as a particular favor, not to whip Harry. I hate 
manual correction — it is a barbarous practice. You will 
not refuse me this favor, will you ?” 

Miles began to remember a certain long account stand- 
ing over against his name in Mr. Thomson’s books, an 
account that ought to have been settled months before. 
“Well, Mr. Thomson,” said he, “it would go hard with 
me to refuse the first request you ever asked of me. Go 
off up stairs to your books, Harry ; I forgive you for this 
time, but mind, if ever I know you to steal one cent of 
my money, or go to the theatre without my knowledge, by 
the” 


1 


A FRIEND/IN NEED. 


93 


“Don’t swear, my dear friend,” said Mr. Thomson, 
making a sign to Harry and Eliza to go up stairs. 
“ Swearing is highly offensive to God. Oh ! my good 
Miles, how careful we should be to put a bridle on our 
tongue, as the Scripture tells us I You don’t know, Mrs. 
Blake, how happy I feel that I had the good fortune to 
come in so seasonably. It would have grieved my heart 
to see that fine boy of yours get one stroke. And now, 
I think of it. Miles, what do you intend to do with 
him ?” • 

“ I was thinking of binding him to a trade, sir. He’s 
now almost sixteen, and though he’s not near as far on 
with his learning as he ought to be, it’s his own fault and 
not mine. He must begin to earn his living.” 

“ You are wrong, Miles, quite wrong !” said Mr. 
Thomson, with a sagacious shake of the head. “ A boy 
like that deserves something better than a trade. Why 
not give him a profession ? make him a lawyer, for in- 
stance. 

“ That’s just what I often tell Miles,” said Mrs. Blake, 
eagerly; “he can afford very well to make Harry a 
lawyer or a doctor, and it would be a burning shame to 
glue him to a bench or an anvil. God bless you, Mr. 
Thomson, but its you that’s the true friend, and the clear- 
headed man all out.” 

, At first Miles demurred on the score of expense, saying 
that he wanted all the money he had to carry on his busi- 
ness. To this Mr. Thomson answered that he would 
never see him short taken for want of a loan. “And 
then Harry will have Zachary for a companion,” he added, 
— “for I intend him for the bar. They can continue at 
Mr. Simpson’s school for a year or two more, and thei 


94 


BLAKES A N f) FLANAGANS. 


they can both go to Columbia College. You see that 
will be quite convenient for all of us !” 

This was all very well, and, on the whole, very satis- 
factory, but Miles was now in another predicament. 

“ Nothing could be better planned, Mr. Thomson,” 
said he, “ but unluckily I can’t take your advice as I’d 
wish to do. Father Power — that’s our priest, sir — was 
here a while ago, and he gave me such a rating for not 
sending Harry to the school belonging to our church, that 
I as good as made up my mind to send him.” 

Mr. Thomson began to look grave. “ These priests 
of yours are queer customers,” said he, after a short 
pause. “ I believe they’re about as good as most men, 
only they have such a way of coming it over their people. 
A’n’t you a better judge of your own business than this 
man — this Father Power, can be ? — what right has he to 
control your actions ?” 

Miles was at a loss how to answer, but still he knew 
very well what it behoved him to say. “We Catholics, 
sir,” and he hesitated, “are in the habit of obeying 
our priests — they’re wiser than we are, Mr. Thomson, 
and besides, we look upon them as the ministers of 
God.” 

Mr. Thomson was seized with a troublesome fit of cough- 
ing, so that he could not answer for a few minutes. At 
last he said, “ look on them as you please, they are only 
men after all, and their opinions are merely human ; only 
to be estimated, my dear Miles, by their intrinsic value 
as human opinions. Now, this priest of yours may be 
very well in his pulpit, talking about the ‘ mysteries of 
religion ’ ( there was a certain mocking tone in Mr Thom- 
son’s voice, which Miles was not sharp enough to detect). 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


95 


but when it comes to chosing a school for your son, your- 
self is the proper judge, not the priest ” 

“Well, I don’t dispute it with you, Mr. Thomson,” 
observed Miles ; “ you may be right in what you say, but 
Father Power made so many objections.^ ^ 

“ Let me hear them, if you please V” 

Now, Miles had an insuperable objection to repeat what 
Dr. Power did say, for fear of giving offence to his valued 
friend, so he affected to have great trouble in remembering 
it. His wife’s memory was not so short, and she came 
to the rescue with, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Thomson, 
Father Power, and my brother Tim, and most of our 
friends are afraid of Harry and Eliza forgetting their re- 
ligion. They say, sir, that Protestant schools are for 
Protestant children, and that, if we wmnt to keep our 
children Catholics, we’ll send them to Catholic schools.” 

Miles was scandalized at his wife’s indiscretion, and 
strove to efface the impression which her words might 
have produced. “You see, sir,” forcing a smile, “that 
my good woman took up what she heard in a wrong sense ; 
that wasn’t exactly what the priest meant, and as for the 
others, sir, their opinion isn’t worth much at the best.” 

Thomson was amused at the discrepancy between the 
statements of the worthy pair ; but it was no part of his 
tactics to appear either surprised or amused. “ At all 
events,” said he, “ I know the priests are opposed to our 
common schools, though why they are so, is a mystery to 
me. I guess it’s because they are afraid of their people 
becoming wiser and more learned than themselves. How- 
ever, I am only losing my time. Am I to understand. 
Miles, that you have resolved on sending your son to that 
school in Barclay street ?” There was a contemptuous 
smile on his lip, and a bitter irony in his voice, which 


96 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Miles could not help but notice, and his pride as well as 
his interest, was alarmed. 

“Well, no, sir, not exactly,” he hastened to say ; “as 
you wish me to send Harry for this one year to Mr. 
Simpson, Til not go against your advice. I know very 
well that the boy is too far on to go to Lanigan’s school 
now. I may as well be hung for an old sheep as a young 
lamb any day.” The latter observation was hardly meant 
for Thomson’s ear, being made in an under-tone. 

“ How ? what did you say ?” demanded Mr. Thomson, 
in his strong Yankee accent. 

“ Oh ! I beg pardon, sir ; it’s just a word we have 
amongst us in the old country ; no offence, I hope, 
sir ?” 

“ Oh ! certainly not,” returned Thomson, with more 
than his usual cheerfulness ; “ it is then settled that Harry 
remains at the Ward school ?” 

“ We’ll think of it, Mr. Thomson,” put in Mrs. Blake. 

“It is thought of, Mary,” said her husband, sharply ; 
“mind your own business, ray good woman I We’ll try 
Harry another year with Mr. Simpson, sir, and I hope 
you’ll be good enough to put in a word with the master 
for him ; let him hurry him on as fast as he can.” 

“ Certainly, Miles, I’ll make it my business to see Mr. 
Simpson myself this very day. Good afternoon. Miles ; 
good bye, Mrs. Blake ; be of good heart both of you — 
your son is in good hands.” 

Miles suddenly remembered that he had to go to 
Chatham Square on some business, so he went out with 
Mr. Thomson, leaving his wife in no very pleasant humor. 
She had a great respect for Mr. Thomson, but somehow 
she thought Harry would be better with Catholic boys, 
and at a Catholic school, and she could not agree with 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


91 


Mr. Thomson, that he and Miles were better judges than 
Father Power, of what was right to be done. 

Eliza and Harry were highly interested listeners to the 
foregoing conversation. “There now, said Harry, in a 
whisper, “ you see Mr. Thomson is the best friend I have 
in the world. If father Power had got his own way, I’d 
have had sore bones by this time. But he missed his 
mark, as it happened.” 

“ For shame, Harry, don’t speak so of Father Power ; 
he didn’t mean any harm, I’m sure.” 

“ Yes, but he did mean harm — I know he did, and I’ll 
not forget it to him. If he could get me into old Lani- 
gan’s clutches he’d be well pleased ; but I’d see him an’ 
the old scare-crow far enough before I’d go to such a 
school. I’m real glad father was wise enough to take 
Mr. Thomson’s advice ; if he didn’t. I’d only have to pro- 
test against that mean school, and let him make his best 
of it. I’ve no notion of making a baby of myself at this 
time of day, saying my catechism and all such stuff ; I 
guess I’ve had enough of that kind of thing.’’ 

Eliza administered another gentle reprimand, but 
Harry only laughed. “Keep your advice till you’re 
asked for it. Miss Prim. There’s father and Mr. Thomson 
gone now. I say, Eliza !” raising his voice a little, 
“ where’s that book you promised to show me ?” 

“ What book ?” 

“Why, that book Miss Davison gave you the other day.” 

“ Don’t speak so loud, or mother will hear you and 
taking a key from a certain corner in the closet, she open- 
ed a drawer in a small bureau belonging to herself, and 
handed to her brother a, very handsome volume, bearing 
on its back, th:p promising title : Instructive Stories for 
the Young. 


5 


V 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ So this is another of Miss Davison’s rewards,” said 
Harry laughing, “ and a very pretty reward it is too. I 
say, Eliza, how do you manage to hide it from the old 
woman . 

What old woman do you mean inquired Eliza 
innocently. 

“ Why, the old woman below, to be sure,” at the same 
time pointing downwards. 

Eliza either was, or affected to be, quite angry. 
Snatching the book out of her brother s hand, she restor- 
ed it to its place, and locked the drawer. “ I declare, 
Harry, Fin ashamed of you — that’s what I am ; I’ve a 
great mind to tell mother how you speak of her and 
Father Power ” 

“ Go on, Lizzy — all right ; the best man foremost,” 
laughed the incorrigible boy. “ And what will I be doing, 
think you, while you’re telling mother your fine story ? 
Han’t I got something now to tell as well as you ? — ha I 
ha ! my prudish little sister ! I’ve a bridle on you at last !” 

“No you ha’n’t,” said Eliza still more angrily, “it’s not 
so wicked a thing to take a premium when one gets it, as 
to steal money and go to the theatre, and speak slight- 
ingly of one’s father and mother, and the priest. I don’t 
care if you do tell.” 

Harry, seeing the turn things were taking, began to 
soothe his sister as well as he could, promising to be a 
better boy for the time to come, and never again to speak 
disrespectfully of “ father or mother, or the priest,” and 
he imitated Eliza’s voice in her own words. This roused 
Eliza once more, and she was al.out to renew the quarrel, 
when their mother called from below : 

“ Come down here, children, what are ,al>Ai2t up 
there ? I hear you talking very loud.” 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


99 


“ Eliza’s hearing me some of my lessons, mother,” cried 
Harry, shaking his fist adnionishingly at his sister. 

“Dear me,” said his mother, “sure you mightn’t say 
them so loud. One would think you were in a mill. 
Come and give me a hand with this sheet Fm hemming, 
Eliza, for Fll soon have to go and see about the supper.” 

In the course of the evening, Tim Flanagan came to 
ask the Blakes “ to go down a-while to his house, as Dan 
Sheridan and his wife were there, and Mrs. Reilly.” 

“ I think we’ll leave Harry and Eliza at home, said 
Miles, “ they have to learn their lessons, you know.” 

“ No indeed,” said Mrs. Blake, “ they learned them 
while you and Mr. Thomson were talking ; and, upon ray 
word, they were so busy at the same lessons, that I had 
to call them tliree or four times before they heard me.” 

Harry winked at Eliza, and Eliza blushed, but none of 
the elders noticed their looks. Uncle Tim cut the matter 
short by ordering “ the children ” to get on their hats. 
Miles could not go till after the store was closed but he 
promised to go “ as soon as ever he could.” 

On the Wily, Mrs. Blake told her brother of Father 
Power’s visit, and how Mr. Thomson had prevailed on 
Miles to send Harry another year to Mr. Simpson, aftei 
all that the priest had said. “Well, well !” said Tim, 
“after that there’s no hope for him ; you may just make 
up your mind, Mary, to let them have their own way, and 
1 tell you plainly, it’s the' way of perdition ; but what 
can you do, poor woman, what can any of us do, but what 
we have done ?” 

The Sheridans and Mrs. Reilly were all very glad to 
see Mrs. Blake : “ they were all cousins through-other,” 
as they said themselves, “ and Mary Blake was a good- 
hearted creature, always kind and friendly with her own. 


100 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


They wished they could say as much, for.- Miles — But 
• Mjles_. was_getting up in the woidd, aud- jt^cpjildn^^be. 
expected that he’d make much ado. about th e lik es of 
them.’’ This was said in a low voice by Daniel Sheridan, 
while Mrs. Blake was up stairs, taking off her bonnet and 
'shawl. The remark, though purely ironical, was taken 
in its literal sense by Mrs, Reilly, a tall, thin, matronly 
woman, in a widow’s cap, and black merino dress. Now, 
Mrs. Reilly was, on the whole, a very good woman, a 
sincere friend, a devoted mother, and, above all, a good 
Christian ; but she had an unlucky propensity to overrate 
the respectability of her own “kith and kin,” and generally 
contrived to introduce some individual of the race, past 
or present, into every conversation. Family pride was 
Mrs. Reilly’s besetting sin, and Dan Sheridan ought to 
have known belter than to tread on the good lady’s corns. 
But Dan was none of the most clear-sighted men in the 
world, as we have already intimated, so he seldom stop- 
ped to consider the effect his words might produce. • ■ 

“ The likes of us, indeed !” said Mrs. Reilly, bridling 
up, “ why, then, indeed, I think the likes of us, Dan 
Sheridan, are as good any day in the year as the likes of 
him. I’m sure when my cousin Mary Flanagan married 
him, it was thought the wonder of the world, and, _ 
between ourselves, it was low come down with my uncle 
Ned’s daughter when she took him. So my uncle. Father 
O’Flyn, said, the very day of the wedding, and between 
you and me, Dan, he wasn’t willing to go to the wedding 
at all, only just for shame’s cause. The likes of us, 
indeed ! Did you hear that, Tim Flanagan I” 

“ No, Sally, I did not ; what was it ? anything about 
the family ?” and Tim winked at Dan in his droll way 
“ This D^n Sheridan hasn’t a proper sense, I’m afraid, of 


A FRIEND IN NEED. lOi 

the revSpectability of the family he married into, and 1 just 
want you to give him a good lesson on that very subject, 
Sally dear — there’s none of us Flanagans can do it so 
well.” 

Mrs. Reilly’s long face relaxed into a smile, for her 
dignity was never proof against Tim’s good-humored 
raillery. “ Bad manners to you, Tim, but you’re always 
ready with your joke. After all, it’s no laughing matter 
to speak slightingly of a decent old family. But here’s 
Mary, let us say nothing more about it I know she’s a 
little touchy at times, although she is a Flanagan.” 

“ Why didn’t you bring the children, Jenny, said Mrs. 
Flanagan, addressing Mrs. Sheridan. 

“ Oh, Peter couldn’t be rooted away from his books, 
and so we left Mike to keep him company, much against 
his will. That Mike is a play-boy, Nelly, and no mistake. 
He has as many tricks in him as a monkey, so he has ! 
Did you hear of what he done on young Dillon the other 
day ?” 

Every one answered in the negatije, except Edward 
Flanagan and his brothers, who began' to laugh. There 
was a general exclamation, expressive of no very exalted 
opinion of Dillon. I hope he thrashed him well,” said 
Tim warmly, “ for that same young Dillon is the devil’s 
own boy.” 

“ Well, if he didn’t thrash him,” said Dan, “he did all 
as one. He soused hinrin the mud while sousing was 
good for him, and the best of it was he had a new suit 
of clothes on him that made him as proud as a peacock. 
Begad I Mike spoiled his line feathers for him. And you 
know he’s older than my boy by three years.” 

“ But what in the world came between them ?” cried 
Tim, eagerly. “ What did he do to Mike ?” 


102 B LAKES ANI) FLANAGANS. 

He did nothing at all to Mike,” replied Dan. “You see 
onr boys, and young Dillon, and Ned here, were all going 
home together,' at least part of the way, when two of the 
Sisters belonging to St. Peter’s School passed them by in 
a great hurry, for they had been out on some business, 
and it was very near school-time. “ There they go,” says 
Dillon, “ with their demure-looking faces, and their queer 
old bonnets. A’n’t they a rum set, these nuns ? I 
guess they think themselves better than anybody else ; 
but I’ll be hanged if I do not another word did Mike 
wait for, but up with his fist, and down w^ent Dillon into 
the gutter, shouting all sorts not to spoil his new clothes. 
Some folks passing began to rate Mike, and call out for 
the constables, but Mike did not choose to wmit for them, 
and never said stop or stay till he got into the school- 
room. Peter w'as a’most dead with- fear, and I believe 
Ned wasn’t much better, but at any rate, they agreed 
amongst themselves to say nothing about it till they’d see 
whether old Dillon would make a fuss or not.’ 

“ Well, and dj^he ?” 

“ Faith, he did so,” said Dan, coolly, “ he came to my 
place that very evening in a great passion, and_threatened 
all sorts against Mike. Myself only laughed at him, you 
may be sure. And I’ll tell you one thing, my good man,” 
says I to him, “ if you’d correct your son yourself once 
in a wdule, or send him to a school w'here he’d he cor- 
rected, it isn’t my little boy, twelve years old, that wmuld 
have to do it. Go home with you,” says I, John Dillon, 
“ and teach your son to respect them that deserves res- 
pect. If you’re as wdse as you’re old, you’ll just let the 
matter drop. That’s my advice to you. If you don’t 
like it, you can take your own ” I’m blest and happy, 
Tim, but he left the house without saying another w'ord, 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


103 


and ever since, tliougli the youn^ hopeful looks daggers 
at poor Mike, he -keeps clear enough of him, I tell you.” 

“Well, I declare,” said Tim, “ Ihn well pleased to 
hear that Mike has such pluck in him. He’ll be a fine 
fellow some of these days. A real chip of the old block — 
eh, Dan ?” Dan smiled assent, and looked as though he 
would have said, “ I only wish he may be as good a man 
as his father.” 

“ You must tell that story over again .when Miles 
comes ?” said Tim. “ It’s just what I’d like him to hear.” 

“ With all rny heart,” replied Dan. Who knows but 
the cap might fit him — eh, Harry ?” 

Harry either was, or affected to be, very much 
engrossed with a new exercise-book of Edward’s. “Were 
you speaking to me,' Mr. Sheridan ?” said he, raising his 
head with a half-conscious air. 

“ I was speaking to you. Mister Blake,” said Dan, 
with a knowing smile, “ but what I said wasn’t worth 
much. We’re all of us a little hard of hearing at times. 
Ahem.” ' 'v 

There was a laugh at Harry’s expense, and it was 
hardly over when Miles made his appearance. 

“ See what it is to be over head and ears in business, 
said Dan ; ‘ me or the like of me can go where I like, 
and when I like, but poor Miles here can’t budge an inch, 
till he gets his store closed, and the key in his pocket.” 

“ True for you, Dan,” observed Miles, “ I am over- 
powered with business, and what would you have of it, but 
the congregation has hung another stone round my neck.” 

Every eye and ear was opened. “ Why, how is that, 
Miles ?” said Tim anxiously, for, with all .their bickering 
on the school question, he had ^a great regard for his 
brother-in-law. “ What’s the matter, now ?” 


104 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Why, nothing in the world but that they have been 
making me a trustee of St. Peter’s ChTurch. Because I 
hadn’t enough to do before, I suppose.” 

Both Dan and Tim could detect, through this show of 
dissatisfaction, the self-gratulation lurking beneath. Dan 
was disposed to rejoice in the honor conferred on his 
friend Miles ; but Tim bluntly said, “ I’ll not wish you 
joy of your office. Miles, for, to tell you the truth, I have 
no great respect for trustees ; in general, they’re a great 
set of raps, that’s what they are ; it’s one trustee in fifty 
that has a spark of religion. For my part, I wouldn’t 
take a mint of money and be a trustee.” 

“ Sour grapes, Tim,” said Miles, with a forced laugh 
“ maybe you would if you had a chance as well as another. 
Somebody must be a trustee, or what will the churches 
do — answer me that now ?” 

“ How did the churches get along in Ireland, man, 
where such a thing as a trustee was never heard of ? You 
know very well. Miles, that I’m no hand at an argument ; 
all I know is that ’most every trustee gets into a quarrel 
with his clergy, and so there must be something wrong, 
though I can’t tell you what it is. Now, it’s my firm 
belief, that no man ' who rebels against his clergy will 
ever prosper in this world or the next ; if, he does pros- 
per here awhile, his riches will melt away like snow off a 
[ditch, for it’s an old saying and a true one, what comes 
over the devil’s back goes under his belly.” 

Every one laughed, except Miles and his wife, the latter 
being somewhat elated at the new dignity conferred on 
her husband. Miles was about to make some caustic 
reply, when Mrs. Beilly hastened to put in her word. 

“ For shame, Tim Flanagan, why would you make little 
of the compliment paid to Miles ? I’m proud and happy, 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


105 




Miles, to hear of your being made a trustee. Tim Flaiia- 
gari ought to be the last man that would speak slightingly 
of such things, and his own uncle — he was my uncle, too. 
Miles, — a committee man in our parish. Indeed yes. 
Miles, my uncle Paddy ! (God be good and merciful to 
him), was a committee-man, ay, and a council-man for 
the confraternity for as good as twenty years. And you 
know, as well as I do, Tim, that he and old Father O’Re- 
gan were as great as could be — ^justlike two brothers.’’ 

There was no getting beyond this, so Tim was fain to 
appear convinced, and as Nelly began just then to put 
some ‘ creature comforts ’ on the table, assisted by Eliza, 
he willingly changed the subject. “ Did you hear. Miles, 
hojv Mike Sheridan served that young scamp of John 
Dillon’s ?” 

“No, I heard nothing of it ; but, mind you, Tim, if 
it’s anything about the schools, you may keep it to your- 
self. You know of old there’s no use beating about the 
bush ; you’ll make nothing of it, I promise you.” 

“ Go to — Galloway !” said Tim, half-jest, and whole 
earnest, “ do you think I have nothing to mind but your 
school-affairs ? Take my word for it, you’ll not hear 
much more about them from me. Sup your owu soup, 
my fine fellow, and I’ll sup mine ; we’ll see which will 
have the best of it. Will you tell him the story Dan ; 
though, upon my credit, he doesn’t deserve it. Go on, 
anyhow !” 

So Dan repeated his story, and Miles made a show of 
being highly exasperated against young Dillon. “ He 
was always a wild, good-for-nothing fellow,” said he. 

“ Begging your pardon,” said Tim, stopping him, 
when I knew him first, about ten years agone, he was as 
fine a boy as you’d wish to see, and as mannerly too. 
5 * 


106 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


It’s Mr. Simpson — the oily rogue — that has made him 
what he is ; him and the company his wise father threw 
him into — God forgive him his sins ! But, sure, I pro- 
mised to say nothing about the schools, and with God’s 
help I won’t — for the present, at least. This is no time 
for squabbling ; come, draw over to the table and try 
Nelly’s cookery. There’s a time and a place for all 
things.” 


THE SISTER s’ SCHOOL. 


101 


CHAPTER YII. 

sisters’ ttCKOOL A GLANCE INTO TIM FLANAGAN’s 

HOUSEHOLD. 

As vre taken a passing glance at the female 

school, go^eiLsd by that most pions young lady, Miss 
Davison, it would be neither fair nor courteous to overlook 
that of the Sisters of Charity. It is almost needless to 
say that these good ladies are invariably characterized 
by their feminine gentleness and Christian modesty — the 
spirit of the Order, actuating and regulating all their 
actions, leaves little rcom for individual peculiarities. All 
have before them a comccLon model for demeanor as well 
as for conduct, so that in every one is manifested more or 
less of the divine sweetness and modesty of the Virgin 
Mother. Of the sisters who taught St. Peter’s female 
school at the time of which I write, I will only particu- 
larize two : one was perhaps forty-five or fifty, and the 
other a fair young creature, in the second year of her 
monastic life. Sister Magdalen, the elder, might well 
have passed for the mother of sweet Sister Mary-Teresa, 
and the latter always treated her with the deferential 
respect of a daughter, for, independent of the difference 
in point of age. Sister Magdalen had many other claims 
on the respectful consideration of her companions. She 
was a woman of excellent understanding, with a strong 


108 


BLAKES AND FL A'N A G A N S . 


and vigorous mind, well fitted to grapple with the most 
abstruse subjects, if sucli had been her taste j her natural 
abilities had been seconded by all tjj^ advantages of edu- 
cation, her family being one of the first in her native 
county. Had she been a Protestant, she would have been 
“ a strong-minded woman,’^ beyond all doubt ; she miglit 
have taken the lead at public meetings, edited a daily 
newspaper in some of our great cities, delivered public 
lectures, and written huge volumes on metaphysics or 
philosophy. But being a Catholic, as I have said, and 
born in Ireland, she was brought up by the Sisters of 
Loretto, and her mind was early imbued with • the old- 
fashioned Catholic notions regarding feminine modesty 
and Christian humility. She was taught to consider 
human learning as a mere accessory to the grand science 
of salvation ; very good and very useful iu its own place, 
but never to be made the primary or fundamental object 
of education. So instead of blazing forth, “ a burning 
and a shining light,’^ on reaching the age of maturity. Sis- 
ter Magdalen thought proper to take the very unworldly 
step of retiring from the world with all her natural and 
acquired graces, and all the rare endowments of her mind 
to live a life of seclusion and of mortification amongst 
the humble Sisters of Charity. There, her talents and 
her virtues were hidden in “ the bosom of her God,” and 
devoted to Him in the service of his creatures. In the 
community, Sister Magdalen was only distinguished from 
her sisters in religion by her still greater diffidence and 
humility ; in the school-room she was characterized by 

‘‘ Her speech where dazzling intellect 
Was softened by Christian meekness,” 

and by the sick-bed of the poor and destitute. Sister 
Magdalen was indeed a ministering angel. Such was 


THE sisters’ S,CnOOL. 


109 


“ the triple crown ” which that singularly-gifted woman 
had chosen for herself. Her young assistant in St. Peter’s 
school was very beautiful in person, and as pure in mind 
and heart as are the celestial spirits ; but her intellect 
was of no very high order, which deficiency gave Sister 
Mary-Teresa but little trouble, so long as she knew 
enough to teach the little ones. ‘ Dear Sister Magdalen 
, knows enough for all of us, and the higher branches are 
in her hands.’ But even this was more. inferred from the 
young Sister’s maimer than from her words, for Sisters 
of Charity speak but little of themselves, and that little 
as rarely as possible. 

The two little Flanagans were as yet under the care of 
Sister Mary-Teresa, and though she, of course, made it 
a rule to show no partiality, yet she could not help feeling 
a peculiar interest in both the children, but especially in 
little Susan, who was the youngest child in the class. 
- Ellen Flanagan, or— as she was generally called, Ellie — 
was at times a little refractory, and liked to have her own 
way, if she could at all manage it so, but Susy was as 
gentle as the breath of summer, and was besides so fond 
and so endearing, that Sister Mary-Teresa could not help 
loving her more than all the rest. But that was nothing 
strange, the, other children said, for dear little Susy^ was 
the pet of the whole school. 

One morning, about a week after the social meeting at 
Tim Flanagan’s, the two little girls went very early to 
school, hoping to get in before any of the others, in order 
to have a look at the pictures in a certain big black 
book, which lay on Sister Magdalen’s desk. This book, 
or rather these pictures, had been running in their heads 
ever since one memorable day, some two or three weeks 
before, when Ellie had been called up before that grand 


110 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


tribunal where Sister Magdalen presided, to answer for 
some grave misdemeanor — grave it was in tliat school 
where all was innocence and childish simplicity, though 
in other more worldly schools it would have amounted to 
nothing. However, while Ellie stood listening to the 
mild admonition of the good Sister, her sharp eye caught 
sight of some of the pictures aforesaid ; the grand tidings 
were speedily communicated to Susy, and ever since, 

Sister Magdalen’s big black book all full of pictures,’’ 
had been the chief subject of their conversation when 
alone together. Ellie would “give anything in the world 
to see those pictures,” and Susy “ had a great mind to ask 
Sister Mary-Teresa to show them.” 

“ No, no,” said Ellie, “ don’t ask her ; let us try and 
get in very, very early -some morning, and then we can 
look at them so nicely before any of the other girls come.” 

But alas ! for Elbe’s fine scheme ; the nuns were 
already in the school-room, engaged in preparations for . 
^the duties of the day. There were also two or three of 
the girls, sisters of the name of Smith, the youngest of 
whom was about the age of Ellie Flanagan. 

“Now, you see, Ellie,” said Susan, “we’re too late 
after all. Isn’t it too bad, and we coming so very early ?” 

“ What is the matter with my little Susy this morn- 
ing ?” said the soft voice of Sister Mary-Teresa. “ She 
looks as though there were something wrong.” 

“ Don’t tell her ?” whispered Ellie. 

“ Yes, but I will, Ellie — I know Sister Mary-Teresa 
will get leave for us to look at them. It’s all about that 
big black book, Sister, that’s over there on Sister Magda- 
len’s desk.” 

“ Oh indeed ? and what about the big black book, my 
child ; does it make you afraid, or what ?” 


THE sisters’ school. 


Ill 


“ Oh I no, Sister,” cried Susy, encouraged by tlie Sis- 
ter’s affectionate smile ; “ Elbe says it’s full, full of pic- 
tures, and we do want to see tliem, but we can’t get a 
chance, for you see we came this morning ever so early, 
and here’s you and Sister Magdalen and all the rest in 
before us.* If we could only look at them pictures, Sis- 
ter Elbe and I would be ever so good.” 

“ Well, Susy, suppose I show you the pictures, will you 
and Elbe, promise not to look round the room any more 
when you’re at your prayers ?” 

It is needless to say that the promise was cheerfully 
given, whereupon the smiling Sister took the two children 
with little Mary Smith, and showed*them “ every one of 
the pictures” in the mysterious black book, to their infinite 
' satisfaction. The book was no other than a volume of 
Butler’s Lives of the Saints, an old Dublin edition, embel- 
lished with numerous engravings, and Sister Mary-Teresa 
told the children a little story or two in connection with 
the pictures, the two older girls drawing near when they 
heard of the stories. Susy was quite taken with the 
infant St. John in the desert, with his lamb, and the Sis- 
ter had to tell her more than once how he retired to the 
wilderness in his early childhood to serve God in solitude 
and in mortification. Numerous were the questions asked, 
and patiently did the gentle teacher answer them all, 
until the bell rang for prayers. By this time most of the 
girls were in and listening to the stories, but in an instant 
all were on their knees facing towards the large crucifix 
at the head of the room over Sister Magdalen’s seat. The 
morning prayers were said aloud by Sister Mary-Teresa — 
they consisted of the Lord’s Prayer, Angelical Saluta- 
tion, the Creed, and the Angelas, ending with a short 
offering of the actions of the day to God and a little 


112 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


prayer for the faithful departed. The whole took up 
about five minutes. Then came the catechism, divided 
into two classes, heard respectively by the two nuns, 
already mentioned. With all due respect to the more 
advanced pupils and their accomplished teacher, we will 
remain with Sister Mary-Teresa and her infant class, con- 
sisting of about twenty children. 

“ Well, children I” said the good Sister, seeing them 
all properly settled in their places, “ whereabouts are we 
to-day ?” 

“There, Sister,” said the first girl, Sally Doyle, step- 
ping forward and pointing out the place in the book held 
by the nun. 

“ Yery well ! repeat the seventh commandment, Sally I” 

“ Thou shalt not steal I” 

“ Yery good I What is forbidden by this command- 
ment ? — Go on, Alice !” to the next girl. 

“ It is forbidden to take, to receive, to keep, or to covet 
anything belonging to our neighbor, either publicly or 
privately, without his knowledge and consent.” 

“Yery well, indeed, Alice I Now tell me, Mary 
Smith, if you were to take a sixpence from one of your 
companions without her knowledge, would you thereby 
break this seventh commandment ?” 

“ Yes, I would. Sister; but I woulduT take a sixpence, 
or a penny from any one — unless my father or mother ; 
would it be any harm, sister, to take it from them ?” 

“ Yes, my dear, it would be a very great harm — almost 
as great as if you took it from me or any one else. You 
know, my dear children, the commandment says positively 
thoii, shalt not steal — it does not say, thou shalt not steal 
from any one exce.'pt your father and mother^ but simply 
thou shalt not steals so you see there is no exception. If 


THE sisters’ school. 


113 


you take anything from any one without his knowledge 
and consent, you violate the seventh cominandment of 
God.” 

“ Well, then,” said Ellie Flanagan, “ my cousin Harry 
broke this commandment when he stole money out of his 
father’s drawer to-go to the theatre, — didn’t he, sister ?” 

“ Hush, hush, Ellie dear !” said the nun quickly, “yon 
are now breaking another commandment.” 

“I ! sister,” cried Ellie,’with a face as red as a coal, 
while all the others looked their eager inquiry, for none 
of them understood how Ellie could have sinned by such 
simple words. 

“ Can any of you repeat the eighth commandment for 
me ?” sgrtd the nun mildly. 

Ellie herself replied, “Yes, I can. Thou shalt not 
bear false witness against thy neighbor.” 

“ Very good. Can you tell me now, Ellie, what is 
forbidden by the eighth commandment ?” 

Ellie c^ould go no further, but Mary Smith answered 
for her : “ all false testimonies, rash judgments, and lies.” 

“ Very well, Mary, as far as it goes. Now tell me 
what else is forbidden by the eighth commandment ?” 

“ Backbiting, calumny ” 

‘ “And detraction,” put in Alice Brady, seeing Mary 
likely to break down ; ‘ also all words and speeches hurt- 
ful to our neighbor’s honor or repuUtion.” 

“ Right, Alice, quite right. — I)o you now perceive, 
Ellie, how you broke the eighth commandment, by speak- 
ing as you did, regarding your cousin? You see you are 
forbidden by this commandment not only to tell lies, but 
even to tell the truth, when it might injure your neigh- 
bor’s character in any way. Do you understand me, 
children ?” 


114 ' 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Oh, yes, sister,” cried several of the girls, but Ellie 
hung down her head, and looked as though she could 
hardly keep in her tears. 

“ Ellie, my dear,” said her kind teacher, “ you must 
not feel hurt at what I have said. I scarcely think you 
have sinned in this matter at all, because you spoke 
through Ignorance. You did not know that it w^as a sin 
to publish the faults of another ?” 

“ No, indeed, sister, I did hot,” said Ellie, looking up 
with a brighter face. 

“ Well, then, I may venture to tell you, my dear child, 
that you committed no sin, but, remember, you can never 
have that excuse again. -You now understand how the 
eighth commandment is broken, and will, I trust*- be care- 
ful to observe that holy precept for the time to come.” 

All the children answered in the affirmative, and thus 
ended the Catechismal lesson of that morning. About a 
quarter of an hour was thus passed, and who may calcu- 
late the amount of good effected during that short time ? — 
who may tell wiiat precious fruit it brought forth in after 
days and years ? — how many thefts, how many prevarica- 
tions — how much calumny and detraction it prevented ? — 
how many a grievous wound it saved the hearts of parents 
and friends, ay ! even the loving heart of God ! — Ah ! 
surely it is a pitiable thing to hear Catholic parents com- 
plain of so much time being lost in Catholic schools iu 
teaching and learning the Christian doctrine ! — Time ! 
What is time, but the ladder given us to ascend to God ? 
If we use it not for that purpose, it will be turned the 
otlier way, and lead downward with double velocity to 
the abyss of never-ending w^oe. If our children are not 
taught their relative duties to God and maig and to their 
own souls, all else that they may learn is worthless trash, 


TIM Flanagan’s household. 115 

without any real value either for this world or the 
next. 

A day or two after this practical lesson, Tim Flanagan 
happened to make some remark in reference to Miles’s 
misconduct with regard to his children. It was in the 
evening, just after supper, when all the family were 
- assembled in the little sitting room, or rather kitchen. 
The young people were conning over their lessons for the 
ensuing day, and Mrs. Flanagan sat knitting her stock- 
ing while Tim read aloud Gobiiiet’s famous ‘Instructions 
for Youth.’ All of a sudden Tim laid down his book and 
heaved a heavy sigh. 

“ What’s the matter, Tim ?” said Mrs. Flanagan, with 
affectionate solicitude. 

“ Nothing at all, Nelly, only I was just thinking of 
them poor- children of Mary’s. They* get no Christian 
instruction at school, and though their mother does all 
she can to make them read good books at home, they’re 
getting now that they won’t read them, do what she will. 
Novels are the whole go with them now, it seems, and 
she doesn’t like to be telling their father all the time.” 

“ God look on them this night,” sighed Mrs. Flanagan, 
“ I could cry for them from my heart out, indeed I 
could.” 

“ They say, father, that Harry makes fun of the priests 
and the nuns now,” said Edward, “just as if he wasn’t a 
Catholic at all. Mathew Grace says he heard him at it 
with his own ears.” 

“ Take care, Ned,” said Ellie, eagerly, “ take care of 
the eighth commandment.” 

“ What does the child mean ?” said Tim, opening his 
eyes wide, and fixing them on his daughter. 

“ Why, father, Edward is saying something bad about 


116 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


cousin Harry, and Sister Mary-Teresa told us the other 
day at Catechism, that that is breaking the eighth com* 
mandment.” 

The father and mother exchanged glances. Their 
hearts were full of joy and gratitude, and for a moment 
neither spoke. 'At last'Tim reached out his hand ; “ come 
here, Ellie — God bless you, my child ; but it’s you that 
has the good memory all out. I’m proud and happy to 
hear you talk that way, my daughter, and I hope you’ll 
never forget the lessons that you learn with them holy 
nuns. 1 must buy you a nice new doll for that !” 

“And me, father,” cried little Susy, “ won’t you buy 
me one too V’ 

“ There now,” said the delighted father, “ see what I 
have brought on myself. I’ll see, Susy ; I’ll see what I 
can do. Make haste and learn to read your prayer-book, 
and then I’ll get you a doll if there’s one to be had in 
New York city. Go over there to your mother, little 
pussy, I think she has something in her pocket for you. 
If you have your lessons learned, Ned, go and get that 
‘ Life of St. Patrick ’ that you have, and read some of it 
for Tom and Johnny.” 

With such teachings as this at home and in school, it 
was quite natural that the young Flanagans should grow 
up in the fear and love of God, a bless-ing to their parents, 
and to each other. Weeks and months rolled over their 
heads, their bodies improving in health and strength, and 
their minds in all the knowledge useful and necessary for 
them. One after another the four children made their 
first communion, and received confirmation at the hands 
of the good Bishop Dubois, then titular Bishop of New 
York. -^ Little Susy felt it hard that she could not be 
confirmed, or go to confession, or receive the Holy Com- 


TIM Flanagan’s household. lit 


inunion when her sister did. Her mother tried to con- 
sole iier by telling her that in a couple of years more she 
might begin to prepare. 

“A couple of yeai’s, mother ; — bow long is that ? — 
isn’t it a very long time ?” 

“No, lio, Susy dear, a year is only twelve months, and 
two years will not be long in passing. Don’t be thinking 
about it, Susy, and it will pass all the sooner. Your 
turn will soon come — never fear but it will. Try and 
learn your catechism as fast as you can.” 

“ Can’t anybody make their first communion, or be 
confirmed, unless they know their catechism well, well ?” 

“ No, my child, because you couldn’t understand what 
you were about unless you knew your catechism, well,, 
well, as you say yourself.” 

“ Well, mother, I’lj try hard to have it again, a couple 
of years.” 

“ Or sooner, if you can,” added her mother with a 
smile, “ go now and play with dolly awhile — that’s a good 


child.” 



Meanwhile, Edward got a situation as clerk in tfm 
establishment where his father was employed as a jour- 
neyman leather-dresser. He had got a good solid mer- 
cantile education, “ and that is all he wants,” said his 
father ; “ he knows quite enough to work his way decently 
through the world, and I have no fear but he’ll do that, 
with God’s help. He’s smart and active, writes a first- 
rate hand, and is able to keep a set of books for any 
house in the city. He knows grammar and geography, 
Mr. Lanigan tells me, as well as any boy can know them, 
and, what’s best of all, he knows his duty to God and 
the world ; so I’m liot much afraid but he’ll do well. He 
has a better chance than I had,” added Tim, “for I 


118 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


knew neither book-keeping, grammar, nor geography, 
when 1 started to push ray fortune, nor doesn't yet, for 
that matter ; but, never mind. Pm getting along well 
enough without them, thanks be to God 

This was said to Daniel Sheridan, who had, of late, 
beconie a “ bosom crony of Tim’s, owing to the increas- 
ing estrangement of Miles. Daniel had bound his sou 
Mike to a carpenter, “just to keep his hand out of an ill- 
turn said Dan, “ I wish to goodness he was anything 
like as far on with his schooling as your Ned is ; but the 
short and the long of it is, that he wouldn’t learn' do 
what we would, so we thought there was no use in tryin’ 
to cram lessons down his throat. Thanks be to God for 
it, he’s not a bad son, though he’s a poor hand at the 
learning ; to be a wild harum-scarum fellow as he is, it 
wouldn’t be easy findin’ a more dutiful son. To be sure 
he’s fond of kicking up shines, and keeps us all in hot- 
water at times with his antics, but for all that, a word 
from me or his mother will cool him down the hottest 
time he is. God knows I’d rather see him as he is, than 
to be like Harry Blake, for all he’s at college, and talks 
like any gentleman. ' But what of that, Tim dear, when 
ha won’t bear a word from father or mother, and never 
bends his knee to a priest, I hear, from one year’s end to 
the other — Christ save us !” 

Peter Sheridan and Thomas Planagan were learning 
Latin, on Dr. Power’s recommendation. They were both 
of a studious disposition, and both desirous of becoming 
priests. Their parents were well pleased with their 
choice, and declared on both sides that they would spend 
the last copper they had to push them along, “ if so be 
that God gave them grace to persevere.” 

Tom Reilly and his wife had latterly set up a little 




TIM Flanagan’s household. 


123 


example of his good parents, and the bent given to his 
mind by his ancient master, had all borne good fruit. 
Edward Flanagan was just what an Irishman’s son ought 
to be, no matter where he is born or educated. 


124 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 



CHAPTER YIII. 

THE SCENES ARE SHIFTED — THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING- 

SCHOOL UNCLE TIM’s practical JOKE, AND OTHER 

MATTERS. 

Seven years had passed since the last appearance of onr 
characters “ on any stage.” We left the younger branches 
of the united houses of Blake and Flanagan in a state of 
transition, just passing from childhood to that mature age, 
varying in different Individuals, when they are respec- 
tively known as young men and young women, or young 
ladies and gentlemen, as the case may be. Fortune had 
continued to smile on both families. Miles Blake had 
grown rich and independent. People had somehow got into 
the habit of calling him Mr. Blake, and when any one, 
presuming on very old acquaintance, did address him by 
his Christian name, it was quite clear ,that the freedom 
was not at all acceptable. He had kept his ground as a 
trustee of St. Peter’s, but I am sorry to say that as a 
Catholic he had lost ground considerably. Old St. Peter’s 
had been voted as unsafe, and a handsome edifice was put 
up for the accommodation of its congregation, now much 
increased. The trustees vested with full power over the 
temporal affairs of the church were, it would seem, wholly 


THE FASHIONABLE D 0 A R D I N G - S C H 0 0 L . 1 25 


• unfit for the office they held. Matters grew worse from 
year to year, debts were gathering like a thunder-cloud 
over the doomed church ; the prudent remonstrances of 
the pastor, and his wise counsels, were set at naught, and 
the trustees held fast by their delegated authority in oppo- 
sition to the priests, though utterly unable to manage the 
business of their office with any degree of success. The 
consequence was, that the majority of them were ranged 
against the priest in the temporal order, and in the spirit- 
ual they were hardly one whit more docile or obedient. 

“Deck’d in a little brief authority,” they began to 
wax great in their own estimation, and to think them- 
selves quite equal, if not superior, to the priests. It may 
well be supposed, then, that Miles Blake had not bene- 
fited much, in a spiritual point of view, from his highly- 
valued office of trustee. The truth was, that whatever 
religion he had had before that dubious elevation, had 
nearly all evaporated during these eventful seven years. 
What with liis angry contentions with the priests, and 
his great worldly prosperity. Miles had lost many of his 
good qualities, and acquired bad ones not a few. Per- 
haps these might have been latent in his character, 
awaiting circumstances to call them forth, but come how 
they might, they had come, that was certain. His 
comely helpmate bore her honors somewhat more meekly, 
owing mainly to the fact that she, unlike her husband, 
went at times to confession, and did not pretend to “act 
independently,” which notion had been fatal to poor 
Miles. Mrs. Blake, I am bound to acknowledge, did 
carry her head something higher than in the good old 
times ; she had “ fallen into flesh,” too, considerably, and 
the world knows that a good portly rotundity of figure 
is, of itself, -a load of dignity to the possessor thereof; so 


126 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


between the fat and the twenty thousand dollars which 
rumor assigned to Miles, and the trusteeship, not to 
speak of the honor reverting from her ‘‘highly-accom- 
plished ’’ children, Mrs. Miles Blake was a personage of 
no small pretensions. 

As for Master Harry you would find it no easy matter 
to recognize him in the tall, thin, and rather cynical-look- 
ing gentleman I have now to introduce. The light- 
hearted, hot-headed boy of fifteen or sixteen, with his 
bright Milesian face, had changed like the caterpillar, 
into the gaudy butterfly, if a fashionable “Broadway- 
swell ” can ever be so called with propriety. Mr. Blake, 
junior, or Mr. Henry T.’ Blake, as he chose to style him- 
self (though where the T. came from no one knew, not 
even himself), had graduated at Columbia College, after 
completing his preparatory studies under Mr. Simpson, 
of unctions notoriety. He and his friend, Zach Thom- 
son, had run the course together, gained a fair share of 
what laurels the Columbia big-wigs had to bestow, and 
came out together to electrify the city. Both entered 
the office of a famous lawyer, and were, in due time, 
admitted to the bar. 

“Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown,” 

as Harry observed, making a somewhat forced applica- 
tion of Scott’s line. They were both handsomr'and of 
polished manners — at least, so thought themselves and 
their friends ; both dressed in the tip of the fashion, and 
were to be met in all public assemblies ; both had their 
pockets full of money, and were on all these accounts set 
down as “first-rate fellows” by their “fast” acquain- 
tances, both male and female. The young ladies were 
quite in love with this new Damon and Pythias, and 


THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 12 ‘» 


were divided into two parties on their merits as “ eligible 
matches.” It is hardly necessary to observe that our 
quondam friend Harry, alias Henry T. Blake, the favor- 
ite pupil of sleek Mr. Simpson, the distinguished graduate 
of Columbia College, was not over-burdened with reli- 
gion. He was still “ rather inclined ” to patronize St. 
Peter^s, it is true — that is, he went there occasionally, 
when there was some great attraction, such as a famous 
public singer, or a popular preacher, or the like. On 
such occasions, Mr. Henry T. Blake never condescended 
to go in time for the beginning of Mass. The epistle 
was always over, and sometimes the Gospel, when Mr. 
Henry T. walked, or rather lounged up the aisle, entered 
the family pew, and quietly took possession of his seat 
(after kneeling for a second or so), where he took good care 
to remain during the remainder of the service, bending one 
knee at the elevation as a mere matter of form. Then 
Mr. Henry T. Blake would lean his elbow gracefully on 
the side of the pew, taking good care to exhibit a costly 
topaz which sparkled on the fourth finger of his left hand. 
He would put back the luxuriant dark hair from his fore- 
head with an air of the most consummate norwhalance, 
bowing and smiling to any lady-acquaintance whose stray 
glance might wander towards the handsome young law- 
yer. Such is Mr. Henry T. Blake, when at twenty-three 
he appears again before us. 

Eliza Blake was no less accomplished than her brother. 
She had grown from a delicate, and rather sallow-featured 
child, into a slight, graceful girl, retaining only just so 
much of her early fragility of appearance as was requisite 
to make her what is called genteel-looking. Her 
features bore the impress of her Irish origin in their 
purely Grecian character, and her figure, though slight, 


128 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

had that rounded fullness characteristic of the Irish 
maiden. There was an intellectual expression in Eliza^s 
countenance, and a sweetness in her bonnie blue e’en,’^ 
that spoke of many a rare quality of mind and heart, and 
they who judged the book by its cover would not have 
been altogether wrong in their calculations. Notwith- 
standing the grievous disadvantage under which Eliza 
labored, in having been all along through the unaccount- 
able folly of her father, subjected to a false system of 
education, she was still so amiable, in a natural point of 
view, that her Protestant friends all loved her sincerely, 
and her Catholic relatives said it was a thousand pities to 
see such a girl spoiled as she had been. She had grown 
up' under the teaching of “dear Miss Davison,” and in 
the society of the Misses Thomson, Jane Pearson, and a 
few more — all daughters of Miles’s “ respectable people.” 
When Eliza was about fifteen, she was sent to a fashion- 
able academy, somewhere in the neighborhood of the 
Washington Parade-ground. There she learned a some- 
thing of everything, without obtaining a real knowledge 
of anything in particular, except it might be the whole art 
of charming, or some such science. She could play some / 
eight or ten grand pieces, commonly called by Professors 
“ show-off pieces these she could execute with wonder- 
ful ease and rapidity ; she could sing all the popular 
songs from Casta Diva to “Jim Crow she had painted 
a bunch of flowers and a basket of fruit, which were 
hung up in rich gilt frames, in her father’s best parlor, 
and exhibited by her mother to every new visitor, more 
to her own gratification than theirs, I grieve to say. 

Eliza was well versed in history — so, at least, she consi- 
dered. To be sure her knowledge was rather one-sided 
— that is to say, she had read no Catholic histories, no, 


THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 129 


not one, but what difference did that make? she had 
read some of the very best histories, Hume’s, Gibbon’s, 
Russell’s Modern Europe, &c., so she might well consider 
herself in full possession of the subject. As to poor Ire^ 
land, Eliza had read no particular history of it. None 
of her teachers had ever mentioned a History of Ireland ; 
indeed, the casual notice of the course of events in that 
country, introduced here and there into the history of 
England, was more than enough. Whatever history Ire- 
land had, was, of course, mixed up with that of England, 
and that was all that was to be said about it. Once, 
indeed, when Eliza, at her father’s request, expressed a 
wish to learn something more about Ireland, Mrs. Danby, 
the principal of the Academy, became quite excited, and 
actually worked herself into a nervous fit. “ You know 
quite enough about Ireland, Miss Blake !” said she ; 
“ the fact is, the less you know about it, it is all the bet- 
ter for you. What on earth has a young lady to do 
with the sanguinary wars, and intestine broils of ages 
long past ? You see yourself that the Irish race have 
never been distinguished for anything except ferocity and 
superstition, so their history can have little interest for 
any refined or cultivated mind. If I had the misfortune, 
my^ear Eliza, to be born of Irish parents — which is, 
happily, not the case — I would endeavor to forget it 
myself, and make others forget it, too, if I possibly 
could.” Eliza ventured to suggest, in reply, that the 
history of Greece and of other countries, which she had 
read,. was also full of civil wars and intestine broils, and 
yet those histories were considered interesting and worthy 
of all attention. “ Nonsense, child I” cried her teacher, 
impatiently, “ how could you think of comparing Ireland 
to Greece — the classic land of Greece — the land of poe- 
6 * 


130 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


try, the land of architecture, the land of valor, the land 
which Byron loved, the land for which he died ? for 
shame, Eliza ! where is your taste ? Ireland and Greece 1 
why, the girl is crazed, I fear !” 

“ 1 beg your pardon, Mrs. Danby, I am perfectly sane, 
and I only made the suggestion for the sake of informa- 
tion. I bow to your superior judgment.” “ You are a 
sweet gentle girl, Eliza,” replied the teacher with her 
most winning smile, “ and I was wrong to speak to you 
in such a tone, but you know my nervous system is so 
fearfully delicate that the least thing excites me. And, 
besides, I am so exceedingly interested in your welfare, 
that I may, at times, overstep the bounds of prudence. 
Y^ou had better go now and practice that grand Valse.^'' 
So Eliza took her seat at the piano, heartily ashamed of 
her first (and last) manifestation in favor of Irish history. 
So fared it, too, with Irish music. Moore’s Melodies wen 
voted obsolete in that fashionable academy, and any young 
lady who did happen to pick up one of them out of doors 
was not permitted to practice it in school, as it was only 
losing time learning such old trumpery music. In fact, it 
seemed as though everything Irish, and everything Catho- 
lic, wms studiously excluded from Mrs. Danby’s academy. 
It was, or assumed to be, a high-toned institution, pro- 
fessing to cultivate the intellect, and to strengthen all the 
faculties by constant exertion. It was a progressive insti- 
tution, too, and had the proud distinction of always keep- 
ing up with the improvements of the age, so that, as a 
matter of course, everything antiquated or old-fashioned, 
was at once rejected by Mrs. D'anby, her husband the 
writing-master, and her two elegant assistants. Miss John- 
son, and Miss Hammersley. 

One or two ministers visited the academy from time to 


THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 131 
\ 

time, just in a friendly way ; they sometimes examined 
the young ladies on matters purely secular — never reli- 
gious — and always paid an extra compliment to any who 
were pointed out (privately) by Mrs. Danby as Catholics, 
alias Romanists. It is needless to say that no priest was 
ever known to set foot within the walls. Eliza had been 
to confession some five or six times during the three years 
she spent at Mrs. Danby’s. This she contrived to keep a 
profound secret, in order to escape the ridicule of her com- 
panions ; they frequently made confession (as they under- 
stood it) a subject of merriment among themselves. On 
these occasions, Eliza used to feel a painful consciousness 
that their strictures were but too just, and she could not 
help envying those who had not to go to confession. The 
poison was making slow but certain progress in her mind, 
and thus it went on for years, until the time came when 
Eliza’s education was declared complete, and her parents 
thought it time to take her from school. And high time 
it was, too, for she was turned of eighteen, a most accom- 
plished young lady, and a sister everyway worthy of Mr. 
Henry T. Blake. 

When Eliza came home from school “ for good and all,” 
her mother thought it necessary to celebrate the event by 
a grand entertainment. Mr. Blake had purchased a hand- 
some dwelling in White street, a few months before, at 
Henry’s special request, or rather command ; and Mrs. 
Blake was anxious for the opportunity of exhibiting at 
one and the same time, her new house, the richness and 
ele<’:ance of her furniture, and the splendid accomplish- 
ments of Eliza. One of Stoddart’s best pianos had been 
provided in anticipation of Eliza s return, and it was 
arranged that on the evening of “ the party,” the com- 
pany should be entertained with a grand concert, consist- 


132 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

ing of Eliza on the piano, Henry with his flute, and Zach- 
ary Thomson on the violin. Then Jane Thomson was to 
sing a duet with Eliza, and Arabella, who was not much 
of a singer, was to play Stiebelt's Storm,” for the asto- 
nishment and delight of the audience. The whole was to 
be, indeed, a grand musical divertissement. These matters 
being all duly considered, the whole family resolved itself 
into a committee on the all-important question of who was 
to be invited. Mrs. Blake would have “ Tim and Nelly, 
and the children ” (they were children still with her). To 
this Henry and Eliza demurred, alleging that their uncle 
Tim and his family would not find themselves at home in 
such a company as they meant to assemble, and, besides, 
the Thomsons, and the Pearsons, and the Smiths, and the 
Greens, would find it so strange ; they were not accus- 
tomed to the ways of the Irish. The Flanagans could be 
asked some other evening by themselves. 

“Well I but you know theyfll not be pleased,” said 
Mrs. Blake, “ if we don’t invite them now. They’ll be 
sure to hear of the party.” 

“ Yes I” put in Miles, “you can’t get over asking them. 
If you didn’t they’d think themselves slighted.” 

“ Even so,” said Henry, “ it would be easy to make up 
the quarrel with them, but it wouldn’t be so easy to get 
over the unpleasant consequences of bringing them and 
the others together. If you invite my Uncle Flanagan 
and his family, you would also have to invite those Sheri- 
dans, and that tiresome Mrs. Reilly and her son. Now 
this I will not stand, mother — I tell you that plainly — 
make up an Irish party some evening, and then you can 
have all your friends.” 

. “ Oft?- friends !” said his mother, drawing herself up, 
“ then 1 suppose our friends are not your friends.” 


THE FASHIONABLE b"o A R D I N G- S CH 0 0 L . 133 

“ I did not say so, mother,” replied Henry, with his 
calm, sarcastic smile ; “ you Irish are so easily touched, 
that one never knows when he is trampling on your corns. 
Be pacified, good mother, I meant no harm, I assure 
you.” 

Mrs. Blake’s heightened color and lowering brow deno- 
ted an approaching squall, but Eliza interposed with her 
accustomed gentleness. “ My dear mother, you must not 
take Henry’s words unkindly. You know he would not 
for the world hurt your feelings ; but remember that the 
circle in which he now moves is totally different from that 
to which my good uncle and his family belong.” 

“ Why, Lord bless me, child ! one would think to hear 
you and Henry talk, that my brother and his wife and the 
young people were all half-savages. Don’t you know 
very well that Edward and John are fit to go into any 
company, and that Thomas is getting education for a 
priest ? and the little girls are learning music and all the 
rest — what more do you want ?” 

“ Nothing more on their part, mother,” said Henry, 
cutting her short ; “ they are all very well in their own 
way, but I tell you once for all, that it will never do to 
have them at this party ; that is, if you want to make it 
what we would wish to have it.” ^ - 

“ After all, Mary, the children may be in the right,” 
'said Miles, “ we can have another party in a week or two 
for our own people. They would not enjoy themselves 
amongst all these stylish, fashionably-dressed friends of 
Henry and Eliza. Let them have their own way.” 

Miles had the casting-vote — a privilege graciously con- 
ceded to him by his son, who was now, as a matter of 
course, the head of the house — so the motion was carried. 
Henry made out the list of those who were to be invited, 


134 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


his mother sitting by in pouting silence, with a fnee that 
seemed to say ; “ Have it your own way — I’ll have 
nothing more to do with it.” 

But she had something more to do with it, for tlie next 
day she was busy from morning to night preparing the 
house for the reception of the distinguished guests. The 
supper was to be supplied by a neighboring confectioner, 
who was also to furnish waiters. The whole affair was 
to be kept a profound vsecret, at least from the Flanagans 
“ and all that set.” Alas ! for the stability of human 
plans and projects ! there was not a single move taken 
in the house of Blake on this momentous occasion that 
was not duly recorded in that of Flanagan. Not one 
“ note of preparation ” was lost on the ear of honest 
Tim — for Tim was still plain Tim Flanagan, as he was 
seven years before. It so happened that the two maid- 
servants of Mrs. Blake, being Irish, as a matter of course, 
had stored up in their memories every word that was said 
derogatory to their own people, and between them they took 
right good care that the Flanagans should know all that 
passed on the occasion of the great party. Instead of 
being annoyed at the slight put upon them by their rela- 
tives, Tim and his wife were highly amused, and Tim him- 
self watched the progress of the affair with intense inte- 
rest, as a capital joke. The young people were not at 
first disposed to view it in the same light, but their father* 
laughed them out of their resentment, and at length suc- 
ceeded in making them laugh too. Happily for them all, 
they could afford to laugh at the silly ambition of the 
Blakes, for they were to the full as independent, though 
not quite so rich. Tim had commenced business on his 
own account some two or three years before, with Edward 
as a partner. John was serving his time to the trade of 


THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 135 


leather-dressing in his father’s shop, with two other 
apprentices. Edward kept the books, wrote and answered 
letters, and began latterly to assist his father in making 
the necessary purchases, while Tim himself worked with 
the boys in a little room off the store, and, when neces- 
sary, helped Edward in the selling department. Thus it 
was that all three worked into each other’s hands ; they 
had nothing to pay out to strangers, except the trifling 
wages given to the apprentices, and what was still more 
advantageous, their business was altogether managed by 
themselves. The consequence was, that in a few years 
they amassed a considerable sum of money, and were 
looked upon as a thriving family. Thomas was studying 
for the priestliood, and had already gone through the 
Greek and Latin classics, with credit to liimself and his 
friends. Ellie and Susan were still under the care of the 
good Sisters, and were making a steady, if not a very 
rapid progress, in the various branches of a good and 
useful education. They were both learning music, and 
their brother Edward had made them a present of a 
piano. 

Ellie had gone through a course of exercises, and could 
play and sing most of Moore’s Melodies, “ without ever 
looking at the music.” She could also sing some of the 
beautiful hymns of the Church, Adtslt Fideles, “ Jerusa- 
lem, my happy home,” O Sanctissivia, and a few others, 
with a pretty accompaniment, so that her little accom- 
plishments were already a valuable addition to the social 
enjoyment of. the family. Even Susan could contribute 
a small share to the common stock of amusement. She 
had a remarkably fine voice, and could accompany her 
sister, or either of her brothers, in their familiar songs 
and hymns. Edward played the flute, and John the vio- 


136 SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

lin, SO that, as their father and mother fondly said, 
“ they weren^t depending on any one for amusement. They 
could amuse themselves without ever crossing their own 
threshold.’’ And so they could, for they were all happy 
in each other, and desired no other society, except it 
might be their friends and relatives, the Sheridans and 
the Reillys. A happy family was that of Tim Flanagan, 
for they lived in the grace of God, and in the exact ful- 
fillment of every Christian precept. They had removed 
to a larger house, which they furnished with a view to 
comfort and convenience, rather than show. 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Nelly,” said Tim to his 
wife, on the day of the great party at Blakes ; “ I’ll 
just drop in to Miles’s, to see what they’re all about. 
It’ll put them into a quandary.” 

“ Don’t Tim, dear ; don’t go near them. There’s no 
use bothering them when they’re all busy with their 
grand preparations.” 

“ But that’s just what I want to do, Nelly,” replied 
Tim with his cheerful smile. “ That’s the smallest punish- 
ment they can get for their nonsensical pride. It isn’t 
that I care about their making little of us — for, thank 
God, that’s what they can’t do ; but I want to shame 
them a little, and that’s the honest truth.” 

“ Well, well, Tim, have yoiir own way ; I know you 
like to have your joke, let what will come or go.” ‘‘ Poor 
souls !” sighed Nelly, when her husband was gone ; 
“ your joking will do them as little good now, as your 
advice did when it might have served them.” 

When Tim reached Mr. Blake’s door he rang the bell 
somewhat louder than usual, whereupon Betty, the house- 
maid, ran with all speed, and Mrs. Blake put her head 
out of the parlor-door, telling her to be quick, for she was 


THE FASHIONABLE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 137 

sure there was some visitor at the door. She had scarcely 
spoken the word when in walked her brother, in his plain, 
every-day clothes, his hands in his pockets, as usual, and 
a roguish smile on his fine, manly countenance. 

“ Dear me, Tim ! is it you that’s in it ?” said Mrs. 
Blake, with a very unsisterly voice and look ; “ I thought 
it was somebody else. Go into the back-parlor — but 
stay — come in here — no, no — it’s a little cold — come down 
to the kitchen, and take an air of the fire.” 

“ No, thank you, Mary, I’ll go no further at present. 
I’m none of your ‘ cauld-rife’d bodies,’ as old Elspeth, the 
Scotch beggar-woman, used to say. Do you remember 
her, Mary ?” he added, seating himself on a handsome 
ottoman just opposite the door leading to the back-par- 
lor, or dining-room. 

“ Xo — no — oh ! what am I saying ? — to be sure I do ?” 
and Mrs. Blake made a desperate, and a very visible 
effort, to recover her composure. 

“ Well, that same’s a comfort,” said Tim, drily ; “its 
wonderful how short people’s memories are growing now- 
a-days. I often think of the time, Mary, when poor 
Phelim and myself were a pair of strapping gossoons, 
vieing with each other to see who’d have his ridge of 
potatoes dug out first ; and you a purty little bare-footed 
gersha, gathering for six spades at a time. We weren’t 
so grand then as we are now, Mary ; but, after all, them 
were pleasant times. There were no silks or satins then, 
Mary, but there was full and plenty of good country 
cheer, and good decent country clothing ; and better than 
all that, there was peace in our hearts, because they were 
simple and contented, and not puffed up with pride.” 
There was a seriousness, almost amounting to solemnity, 
in Tim’s voice, and his face assumed for the moment, an 


138 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


expression of pitying tenderness, as memory brought 
back 

*' The days that erst had been.” 

Blit Mrs. Blake was not at all obliged to him for his 
reminiscences. “ Why, Tim, is it a sermon you’re going 
to give us she saidrtartly ; “ if it is, it’s a queer time 
you took, just in the very middle of the day, when a 
body has a thousand things to look after.” 

“ Oh ! I beg a thousand pardons, Mrs. Blake !” said 
Tim, very politely, and the waggish smile came back to 
his face. “ Sure I forgot all about the party. Here I 
am, clavering and talking about things that are not fit to 
be mentioned in such a house as this,” glancing round 
on the tastefully-furnished apartment ; “ and you, poor 
woman I like a hen on a hot griddle, as I see you are. I 
was forgetting all about the business that brought me 
here. I just came up to tell you that you needn’t expect 
either Nelly or myself this evening. As for Edward, he’s 
engaged to spend the evening with Dr. Power. I’m 
sorry for having to disappoint you, but it can’t be 
helped. It would take Nelly or me a week at least, to 
prepare our best maimers — so the notice was quite too 
short.” 

Mrs. Blake was thunderstruck. The color came and 
went on her cheek. “ Why, what do you mean,,Tim ? — 
what are you talking about ?” and she threw herself into 
an arm-chair, actually panting for breath. 

“What am I talking about?” said Tim, taking up a 
fan which lay on a table near him, and presenting it to 
his sister ; “ there, Mary, dear, you’re getting weak, I’m 
afraid— fim yourself a little, or, stay — here’s a smelling 
bottle — take a snuff of it, and it’ll bring you to in a 


THE FASHIONABLE B 0 A R D I N G - S C H 0 0 L . 1 39 

jiffy. What was I talking about ? why, about the party, 
to be sure 

“ But who — who invited you, Tim ?” 

“ Why, Mr. Henry T. Blake, no less a person. You 
needn’t look at me as if 1 had two heads on me. And 
mighty polite he was too, and, indeed, the same invita- 
tion was a condescension on his part, that I’ll not forget 
in a hurry. Even if he is a great American lawyer, he 
doesn’t seem to forget that he has an old Irish uncle, a 
leather-dresser in the Swamp. Poor young gentleman I 
he’ll be quite down in the mouth when he finds that none 
of the ‘ Flanagans or the Sheridans, or any of that set,’ 
can accept his kind and flattering invitation. Give my 
compliments to him and Miss Eliza. Good bye, Mary ; 
take care and don’t overheat yourself dancing to-night.” 

“ But, Tim,” said his sister, following him to the door 
in great confusion, did Henry really invite you to the 
party ?” 

“Invite us! why, to be sure he did! Didn’t you 
know ?” 

“ Yes — no — oh ! now I begin to think of it.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself to think of it, Mary dear !’’ 
said Tiili, with the same provoking smile. “ You know all 
about it, and so do I. Good bye ! I’ll come up to- 
morrow or next day to see how you all feel after the 
party !” 

Mrs. Blake was going to say something in reply, per- 
haps to make an excuse, but Tim made his exit hastily, 
drawing the door after him with a clap tliat rang all over 
the bouse. This brought Eliza tripping down stairs, her 
hair done up in papers, and her slight figure wrapped in 
a loose calico dress. 

“ What on earth is the matter with you, mother ?” she 


140 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


asked, seeing the confusion still visible on the usually 
placid face of her mother. “ Who have you had here ?” 

“ Them that I had no wish to see at the present tinie,’^ 
replied Mrs. Blake, shortly. “ Fve had your Uncle Tim 
here, and if I didnT get a worrying no poor unfortunate 
woman ever got it. But it’s ju.st good for me, that’s 
what it is. I shouldn’t be led by the nose in my own 
house, and by my own children. If I had stood it out 
manfully, and insisted on Tim’s people being invited, I 
wouldn’t have had to go through what I did this blessed 
day.” 

“ I really don’t understand you, mother. I wish you 
would tell me what has happened to ruffle your temper so ?” 

Just then the door-bell rang. “Oh! here comes 
Henry 1” cried Mrs. Blake ; “ now I’ll see how the 
matter stands. Henry,” she said, meeting him at the 
parlor-door, “did you, or did you not, invite your Uncle 
Tim’s people to the party ?” 

“ Is it I, mother ?” said* Henry, with real, unmistak- 
able astonishment. “ Why, how came you to think of 
such a thing ? — do you suppose that I have lost my 
senses since we talked the matter over before ?” 

“ If you have not,” said Eliza, with a significant glance 
at her mother, “ I fear somebody else has.” 

“ Why, goodness me I” exclaimed Mrs. Blake, too 
much occupied with her own perplexity to notice the dis- 
respectful bearing of her children. “ Why, goodness me 1 
your Uncle Tim has just been here to let me know that 
none of them could come this evening. You may be sure 
I was astonished, and didn’t well know what to say, but 
at last I asked him who invited them, and he told me you 
did ; remarking at the same time, that it was very kind 
and very condescending on your part.” 


THE FASHIONABLE B 0 A R D I N G - S C H 0 0 L , 141 


Henry and Eliza exchanged glances, and then both 
'laughed heartily. “He’s a jolly old fox — is Uncle 
Timothy I” said Harry ; “ He has been quizzing you, 
mother. I pledge you my word of honor I didn’t invite 
him. No fear of that — but I may some other time when 
an opportunity offers. Think no more about it. Let us 
have dinner as soon as possible, and let Uncle Timothy go 
for the present.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE SOIREE — THE IRISH JIG — FILIAL ADMONITIONS VERSUS 
PARENTAL. 

Mrs. Blake’s party went off amazingly well, all things 
considered. Miles had heard nothing of Tim’s practical 
joke, so that there was nothing to disturb the cheerful 
serenity of his mind. His wife was not so fortunate ; 
ever and anon amid the brilliancy and gaiety of the scene, 
came a chilling remembrance of her brother, and his gen- 
tle wife, and their amiable and intelligent family, excluded 
from this social meeting by a caprice which she could 
neither understand nor justify. “ It’s very strange,” 
said she to herself, ‘‘ very strange, indeed ; now they’re 
all very fine here, and very polite, and all that, but 1 
think Tim and Nelly can conduct themselves well enough, 
no matter where they are, and I’m sure Edward and John 
are as well to be seen as any one here. I wonder what’s 
got into Henry and Eliza that they don’t want to see 
their own people about them, as they used to do.” The 
first thing that consoled her was the marked attention 
paid by Zachary Thomson to Eliza. At first, she thought 
it was only common politeness that made him lead her to 
the piano, and keep turning the leaves of her music. 


TIM Flanagan’s househoi. d. 


119 


grocery-store in a shop not far from Tim Flanagan’s. 
Toni was verging on sixteen when he left scliool at his 
own request, telling his mother that he was as far on as 
Mr. Lanigan could put him. Of course his mother 
believed him. “ And besides, mother,” said Tom, “ it’s 
high time I was doing something for you and myself I’m 
bound to make a fortune, you see, mother, and you’ve 
been toiling and saving so long to keep me at School that 
I must try and do something for you in returm” 

“ God bless you, Tom,” said the proud mother, “ it’s 
you that will do something for me. It was low days 
with me, Tom dear, when I took to sick-nursing, but sure, 
necessity has no law. Them days are gone by now, and 
with God’s help and yours. I’ll soon be able to raise my 
head with the best of them. Indeed, myself fancies — 
God forgive me if I’m wrong ! — that even Mary Blake 
began to look down on me these last dnys, since Miles 
got to be a trustee, and Harry went to college, not to 
speak of Eliza going to that grand boarding-school up 
town with the two Miss Thomsons ; but, as I said before, 
it's a long lane has no turn, and may be my turn will come 
next. God be good to my uncle, Falher O’Flynn, or ray 
poor father, if they could only see me any day these last 
five years. I’m sure they wouldn’t rest easy in their cof 
fins. Ochone ! the day my mother — may she rest in 
peace ! — came home to the new house that my grand- 
father put up for her and my father, she had her twelve 
good head of cattle, and came home riding in her side- 
saddle. She did indeed, Tom ! — and that’s true — did I 
ever tell you about the great wedding they had ?” 

“ Oh, yes, mother, you told me all about it,” said Tom, 
unwilling to break off too suddenly from his dignified 
parent, yet anxious to get away, if possible. “ Don’t yon 


120 


BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 


think, mother, it would be well if I went to look after 
those tilings we want for the store V’ 

“ Well, I think so, Tom, and I suppose you’ll be want- 
ing this penny of money.” Rising up, she went to her 
cupboard, and opening a little tin box, took out her pre- 
cious store, the savings of five years. It amounted to no 
less than a hundred dollars, and that sum she counted 
over and over again, into Tom’s hand. After the second 
reckoning,,, she gave it up, finding herself two dollars 
astray. 

“ There, Tom, count it yourself, your eyes are younger 
and sharper than mine, and besides, you’re a better scholar 
than I am. None of us was ever very bright at the learn- 
ing, except my uncle Phelim and poor Father O’Flynn — 
God be merciful to them all ! They say my great-grand- 
father, by my mother — that was old Terence O’Shaugh- 
nessy — was a very cute, well-discoursed man, and read a 
power, but myself doesn’t. know. Well, is that all right, 
Tom dear ?” 

“ All right and straight, mother. This is the begin- 
ning of my fortune. Mind that, now !” 

“ Well, I hope sp, dear — I hope so. God enable you, 
poor fellow !” 

With all his.pertness and self-conceit, Tom Reilly was 
a good lad, dutiful and respectful to his mother, and well- 
disposed to earn a living for him.self and her. He was a 
little weazened and hard-featured to be sure, and rather 
small in stature ; his manner, too, was anything but pre- 
possessing, but still he somehow contrived to make him- 
self respected, and had early got the name of being care- 
ful and industrious. In money matters he was somewhat 
too close for a boy of his age, but as the chief object of 
his savings was to secure comfort and independence for his 


TIM FLANAGAN'S HOUSEHOLD. 121 

mother, no one had a right to blame him. He was scru- 
pulously regular in attending Mass, and made it a point 
to go to confession and communion once a quarter, inclu- 
ding the Christmas and Easter duty. Dr. Power had 
been heard to say (as Mrs. Reilly often boasted), that Tom 
was an honest, upright young fellow, and could not fail to 
do well. Poor Tom had to take the world on his shoulders 
very young ; but his mind was so constructed that he 
scarcely felt the load a heavy one. Business was Tom’s 
chief pleasure, and after he had got fairly underweigh 
and entered fully into the spirit of the thing, he used to 
say that he could hardly live without it. A regular old 
man was Tom in his peculiar turn of mind, having little 
of the buoyancy or elasticity of youth, and much of the 
sober caution of age. His heart alone had the freshness 
of youth, and no stranger could imagine what a depth of 
feeling was hidden beneath that dry, cold surface. 

Tom Reilly and Edward Flanagan were nearly the 
same age, and, notwithstanding their dissimilarity of dis- 
position, they were always very good friends, and were 
generally seen together. Edward was a fine-looking 
young fellow, giving promise, at sixteen, of great muscu- 
lar strength, with a well-proportioned figure, and a frank 
and open countenance, full of gaiety and good-nature. 
Though not of a very studious turn, Edward Flanagan 
was fond of reading, that is, provided the book were not 
too. large, nor too dry. History was his particular forte^ 
and by the time he reached man’s estate, he had acquired 
a very fair knowledge of its principal details, both in 
ancient and moderm times. He had read what was to be 
read of the history of the United States, and had a due 
respect for the memory of Washington, together with a 
proper estimate of the honor of American citizenship, but 
6 


122 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


somehow he hung with more intense interest over the 
changeful page of Ireland’s story. Her great antiquity, 
her former glory, lier manifold misfortunes, her unequalled 
fidelity to the faith of Christ, 

“ Thro’ ages of bondage and slaughter,’* 

and her wonderful agency, from first to last in evange- 
lizing the nations ; all these made a deep and indelible 
impression on Edward’s mind. Much of his leisure time 
was spent in such rea*ding, and he could sit hour after hour 
pondering over the strange fortunes of the land of his 
fathers. Dr. Power had early noticed this fondness for 
Irish literature, and he took care to supply him, from time 
to time, with the best works of the best authors. The 
good priest loved the boy for his Irish heart, for he him- 
self, amid all the multiplied avocations of his office as 
Yicar-General of a young and struggling diocese, and all 
the harassing cares of his ministry, still fondly cherished 
the memory of his own dear land. He loved to revert 
in thought 

“ To that Green Isle where centuries have given 
Genius, and truth, and learning, vainly vast, 

To call her olden glories from the tomb— 

To strike her harp once more ‘ thro’ Tara’s Halls’— 

To see again her Red Branch prowess bloom. 

Or wake the anthem thro’ the abbey’s walls.”* 

But Dr. Power had other good reasons for liking 
Edward. He was so frank and so generous, so gay and 
good-humored, that it was impossible not to like him, and 
better than all that, he was truly religious. He had 
taught the Catechism in St. Peter’s, ever since he was 
fifteen. Thus, the teaching of his worthy Pastor, the 


* J. Augustus Shea. 


THE SOIREE. 


143 


By-and-bye it struck her that there was something more 
than politeness in the rapt attention with which he hung 
over her while she sang and played, and the roseate blush 
on her daughter’s cheek made the mother’s heart throb 
with pleasurable emotion. “ Now, if that should turn 
out to be a match,” said Mrs. Blake to herself, “ wouldn’t 
it be a great thing all out I” And she wondered that 
the thought had never occurred to her before. She 
glanced at Miles, where he was playing whist with Mr. 
and Mrs. Thomson, and Mrs. Green. She saw that he 
was stealing a look occasionally from under bis bent brows 
at what was going on at the piano, and there was a gra- 
tified expression on his face that his wife well understood. 

“What about the concert?” inquired Mr. Green, the 
father of our former acquaintance, Silas, now a tall young 
man of twenty-one. “ I thought the young folks were to 
have given us something of that kind.” 

“ And I thought so, too,” observed Silas, “ but i see 
the performers are all too much engaged with their sepa- 
rate parts to think of the promised concert.” There 
was a bitterness in his tone which none but Eliza and 
Zachary thoroughly understood. Zachary looked at 
Eliza, and Eliza blushing still more deeply affected to 
look for some particular piece in the book before her. 

“It’s all Henry’s fault,” said Zachary, in the true 
spirit of mischief, “ there he sits moping in that corner, 
turning over in his mind his opening charge for to-mor- 
row.” Now Zachary knew very well that Henry was 
doing business on his own account, pleading a most inte- 
resting case with Jane Pearson for judge and jury, and 
he was much amused at the annoyance visible on the face 
of both when his words drew on them the notice of the 
company. ♦ 


144 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Come along, Henry, and take your flute I’' said 
Zachary, when he had given sufficient time for the enjoy- 
ment of his practical jest ; “ I move that you adjourn 
that case till next term. There’s a judgment pending 
over somebody,” he added in a low voice to Eliza, as he 
began to tune his violin. 

“ If I don’t pay you off for this I” whispered Henry, 
as he took his station at the end of the piano, flute in 
hand. 

“ All right, old fellow I I give you full permission I 
mind the music now, and don’t let your eyes go a straying 
into that corner ; let your fair client judge of your music 
now instead of your soft professions. You know 


‘ Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,’ 


and I’m sure your lady-love has no ‘ savage breast,^ so, 
courage ! leave your hopes in the hands of Orpheus !” 

Henry only knit his brows and tried to look stern, but 
it would not do ; there was a smile lurking around his 
mouth, and sparkling in his dark eyes, for, in his heart, 
he was not sorry to be recognized in public as the 
favored suitor of Jane Pearson. 

Commenced under such favorable auspices, the concerto 
could not fail to give satisfaction. Eliza’s fingers had 
never flown so lightly or so easily over the polished keys 
of her piano, Zachary’s bow was actually inspired, and 
Henry’s flute gave forth sounds of ravishing sweetness. 
So, at least, thought Jane Pearson, as she shrank back 
into her corner, and sat with eye and ear intent on the 
triple performance. Even Silas Green declared it “ capi- 
tal,” and complimented Henry on his share of the music. 

“ What 1” said Zachary, with a malicious smile on his 


THE SOIREE. 


145 


lip ; does all the praise belong to Henry ? now, that is 
hardly fair — I appeal to the company I” 

The answer was a general outburst of applause, dur- 
ing which Eliza made her escape into the back-parlor, 
where her mother was superintending the arrangement of 
the supper-table. Henry immediately led Jane to the 
piano, and placed before her the beautiful song, “ Hear 
me, Norma T’ 

By the time the song was finished, Henry was called 
on to choose a partner for the first set of quadrilles. 
Dancing was kept up till a late, or rather an early hour. 
The young people forgot alike the past and the future in 
the intoxicating whirl of the waltz, and the slower, but 
more graceful, movement of the quadrille. Their fathers 
and mothers kept their places at the card-tables, pausing 
at times to- enjoy the sight of their children’s cloudless 
; mirth. Miles Blake and his wife were at the summit of 
! earthly bliss. The dreams of years were at length ful- 
filled. They looked around on the brilliant assembly 
sparkling with costly rings, and gold chains, and superb 
brooches of every shape and size. They saw their chil- 
dren! playing a distinguished part iu everything that was 
going forward^ whether music, dancing, or conversation. 

I They saw mirrors, and splendid hangings, and fine pio- 
i tures, and marble-topped tables ; and they reflected that 
all this was theirs. Who may doubt but they were 
: happy ? 

; Elated by the joyous inspiration of the scene, Miles 
started up from the card-table, resolved to have his share 
> of the fun. ‘ Seizing his wife by the hand, he called out : 
“ Eliza, play us up a good Irish jig. It’s many a long 
fear since your mother and I footed it together, and, by 
4io powers I we’ll have a jig now 
1 


146 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


There was a general disposition to laugh. The ladies 
were seen raising their handkercliiefs to their mouths. 
Eliza and Henry were utterly confounded, and looked at 
each other in niute astonishment. “Foranysake, Henry, 
try to get them off the floor, whispered Eliza ; “ if yon 
don’t, we sliall be disgraced for ever.” 

“ Go on, Eliza !” said her father ; “ we’re waiting for 
the music. Now, Mary, you were famous for a light foot 
and a light heart once in your time. Remember ‘ Auld 
Lang Syne,’ and show our friends here some of your 
Irish steps. Why don’t you go on, girl ?” 

“ I don’t know what to play, pa.” 

“Why, what the deuce, Lizzy, can’t you play ‘Judy 
Brallaghan ?” 

“No, pa.” 

“Well, ‘ the Fox-hunter’s jig,’ then, or ‘ Off she goes,’ 
or any of them good jigs ?” 

“ I don’t know any of them, pa, I never heard of them 
before. Oh, Henry ! Henry !” aside to her brother, 
“ wonH you get them to sit down ? See, everybody’s 
laughing at them already !” 

“ W'ell, 1 declare this is too bad !” said Miles, while 
his wife struggled to draw her hard out of his, in order 
to escape to her seat. “ Can none of you play an Irish 
jig, or a country-dance, or a cotillon ? Mister Zaehary 1 
you can surely give us something of that kind on the 
fiddle — I mean the violin !” 

“Oh ! certainly, Mr. Blake, certainly.” And Zachary 
drew his bow with a flourish, and a deprecating glance at 
Eliza, as much as to say : “ you see I can’t get out of it.” 

“What will you have, Mr. Blake ?” 

“Oh ! anj thing at all ; Fm not particular, so as you 
give us something that thorp’s good footing in.” 


THE SOIREE 


147 


Well, here’s the chorus ji^ for yon.” 

Whatever reluctance Mrs. Blake might have had to 
stand up, it seemed to vanish at the lirst notes of the 
merry music, and she “footed it,” as Miles said, “as if 
she were only sweet fifteen.” Though heavy in flesh, she 
was light of foot, and catcliing a portion of her husband’s 
joyous excitement, she seemed to take a real pleasure in 
proving that Miles’s retrospective complimeht was not 
undeserved, and, moreover, that she was not yet too old 
to “ mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip.” 

As for Miles himself, he danced with all his heart and 
soul, determined to show his American gugsts how a jig 
ought to be danced. He had been a famous dancer in 
his young days, and could still “ take a turn at a jig, reel, 
■country-dance, or cotillon — nothing of that sort tame 
wrong to him. As for their new-fangled dances, he’d 
have nothing to say to them — he left than to the young 
folks.” 

Henry and Eliza affected to be very busy looking over 
some music, but the sctirlet hue of Eliza's cheek, and the 
frown on Henry’s brow, betrayed the vexation which they 
would fain have concealed. And yet they had no reason 
to be ashamed, for their father and mother danced as well 
as any couple who had figured l)efore them. But then 
they were so keenly alive to “ the eccentricities and pecu- 
liarities of the Irish,” and so deeply sensible of the misfor- 
tune of having “ uneducated parents,” that they were con- 
stantly on the watch for fear ot them exposing themselves 
to the ridicule of those friends and associates whose 
opinion was everything to them. 

Whether the company see anything ludicrous in the 
jig, as danced by Miles and his wife, it is not for us to 
say, but certain it is, that they were a little too warm and 


148 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


too noisy in expressing their approbation. Their applause 
savored too strongly of that bestowed on honest John 
Gilpin, when 

Every soul cried out “ well done I” 

As loud as they could bawl. 

Bat Miles and his comely partner were not disposed to 
examine too closely. They were well satisfied with them- 
selves, and took it for granted that others were so too. 
The plaudits greeting them on every side seemed no more 
than their due, so they never dreamed of doubting their 
sincerity. 

“ That’s not a bad jig, Zachary I ” observed Miles, 
when he had conducted his wife to a seat. “ But still it’s 
not the thing. The old ‘ Fox-hunter’s ’ is worth a dozen 
of it.” 

Zachary assented with mock respect, adding with an 
equivocal smile, “ I bow to your superior judgment, Mr. 
Blake. I confess the jig is a species of composition to 
which I have not given due attention. I may study it 
more in future under your auspices.” 

“ Stop there, now, Zachary, you’ve gone far enough 
with that. You can’t come it over me that way. I’m 
too old a bird, Zachary, to be caught with chaff. But I 
really feel as if I wanted something after the hard work 
I’ve gone through. Who’ll join m^ in a glass of punch ?” 

None of the gentlemen would join him in the punch, 
but most of them guessed they would try a little brandy 
and water. Eliza took the opportunity to whisper Za- 
chary : “ I’m not at all obliged to you for helping pa and 
ma to make themselves ridiculous.” 

“ Why, what was I to do when your father asked me 
to play for them ? I couldn’t refuse point blank, could I ?” 

“ Yes, you could — you might have said you couldn’t 


THE SOIREE. 


149 



play a jig ! I’m sore I’ll hate the very name of it as long 
as I live ! I could have played one if I had liked, but 
you saw I didn’t, and you might have done as I did ; I 
tell you, Zachary, it wasn’t at all kind of you, and it 
shows that you don’t care much about either Harry or 
myself, when you study our feelings so little I” 

“ Come, come, Eliza, don’t let us quarrel about such a 
mere trifle. You know too well, my pretty one, how 
much !• do care about some folks I If jon didn’t you 
wouldn’t talk so ! I don’t know why you feel so sore 
about your father and mother retaining their old-fashioned 
ways. There’s nothing so very ridiculous about them, 

• after all. But come, let us have a waltz, will you, before 
I leave ? I see mother and the girls are thinking of 
going home ?” 

Eliza placed her hand in his in token of acquiescence. 
L Henry drew Jane Pearson from her seat, nothing loa,th ; 
[ Silas Green obtained the fair hand of Arabella Thomson, 
, while her sister accepted the earnest invitation of Joe 
Smith. Mrs. Green took her place at the piano, and the 
four couples were speedily whirling around the room to 
« the tune of the Due de Reichstadt’s waltz, then new and 
; exceedingly popular. 

\ This was the finale of the evening’s amusement. By the 
^ time the last couple had reached their seats, the gentle- 
i men made their appearance from the supper-room, where- 
iv upon the elderly ladies declared it high time to separate. 
"A few minutes more and the brilliant rooms were in the 
condition of 

Some banquet-hall deserted, 

Whose lights are fled, 

Whose garlands dead 

I and would that we could say happiness remained, when 

j 

I 

j 

i 


150 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


the guests had “ all departed.’’ But, alas ! such was not 
the case. Far, far from it. The door was scarcely closed 
on the last of the company, when Henry opened on his 
father and mother, asking them what on. earth had put it 
in their heads to expose themselves and others in that 
fashion. 

“Expose ourselves and others V' cried both parents in 
a breath ; “ why, what do you mean, sir ?” 

“ I mean just this, that if you have no regard. for your 
own respectability, you ought to have some at least for 
ns. What a precious pair of fools you made of yourselves 
to-night !” 

“ Henry !” said Eliza, in a tone of reproach. 

“ Never mind him, Eliza, let him go on,” said her ’ 
father ; “ it’s just what we deserve from him — he’s only 
paying his old debt.” 

There was a withering coldness in Blake’s tone, and a, 
sternness in his look, which his children had never heard 
or seen before, and though Henry was fully resolved to 
brave it out, he could not help feeling rather uncomforta- 
ble. Mis. Blake took up the matter more warmly than 
her husband seemed to do. 

“■ Why, then, Henry Blake ! are you taking leave of 
your senses altogether ? If you’re not, I’m afraid it’s 
something worse that’s the matter with you, for the devil’s 
taking full possession of you. I have my eye on your 
goings on this time back, and many a time you brought 
the blood to my face with your jibes and your scoffs before 
strangers, but this last is the worst of all. V/hat do you 
mean by saying that your father and I made fools of our- 
selves 

Eliza made a sign to Henry to keep silent, and under- 
took to answer for him. “ Now, don’t be angry, ma, I’m 


THE SOIREE. 


151 


sure Henry don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I know he 
felt annoyed to see folks laughing when you and pa were 
, dancing.” 

“ And do you pretend to say that they were laughing 
at us ?” demanded her father. 

I . “Yes, pa ! I’m quite sure of it ; and it did make Henry 
1 and me feel so bad !” 

I “ Get out, you young prate-box ! how dare you talk to 
us in such a way ? I’d have you to know that your 
I mother and I must be treated with more respect by both 
of you, if yon want to live in the same house with us I 
llemember we’re not depending on either of you, though 
you treat us as if we were, which God in heaven forbid ! 

' Now, just mind what I’m going to tell you both : as them 
friends of yours have no better manners than to laugh at 
them tlmt were doing tlreir best to entertain them, you 
may tell them from me, that as it was the first, so it’ll be 
the last time they shall ever gather together in my 
house !” 

Eliza took out her pocket handkerchief, and applied it 
to her eyes, while Harry started to his feet, and com- 
menced walking up and down the room with rapid strides. 

“ And I'll add a word or two to the message,” said 
Mrs. Blake ; “ tell yonr companions from me — from a 
slighted and afflicted mother — that it w'ould be well for 
them, and well for you, if you never danced anything but 
jigs and reels, and such like old-fashioned dances. If that 
was the case, Eliza, there wouldn’t be the curse on dan- 
cing that there is now. Our dancing never brought a 
blush of shame to any one’s face, but it isn’t so with your 
waltzes, and some others of your dances, that I defy any 
modest, decent woman to look at without shame. And 
another thing, if you and your dandy brother there, can 


152 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


dance quadrilles, and mazourkas, and waltzes, and all the 
rest, who paid the piper, I want to know ? If it hadn’t 
been for your father and mother, that you think so little 
about, you’d neither be able to dance nor play — remem- 
ber that, my young dame, and you. Master Henry, for all 
you think yourself such a great man, and look down so 
scornfully on them who made you what you are. God 
forgive us for that, anyhow I I’m afraid we’ll have it to 
answer for I” 

“ Mother,” said Henry, stopping short in his march, 
and planting himself right in front of his parents, “ if 
either you or my father suppose that I will allow you to 
treat me as a boy, I beg to assure you that you are much 
mistaken. It is very strange if I cannot regulate my 
own conduct without parental admonitions — believe me, 
I am fully competent to do so — pardon me if I give you 
pain, but I would have you understand, once for all, that 
I will allow no one to dictate to me what I am to say or 
do I If it does not suit you to have me remain in your 
house, I can go elsewhere I Indeed, I would prefer a 
change of residence on many accounts, and would long 
since have proposed it were it not that I feared it might 
hurt your feelings. Good night I Bon soir, ma chere 
soBur So saying, he left the room. 

“ What’s that he’s saying ?” said his mother. “ I sup- 
pose that’s some more of his impudence 1” 

“No, no, mother,” said Eliza, eagerly ; “he only bid 
me good night in French. That was all, I assure you.” 

“ And he couldn’t say it in English,” observed Miles, 
the frown still lowering on his brow — “ oh ! no, he wanted 
to show off — to taunt us as it were, and make little of us, 
by speaking to you in a language we don’t understand. 
Just as if- his languages, and his music, and his dancing — 


THE SOIREE. 


153 


and his law into the bargain, didn’t all come out of our 
hard earning ? — and because we hadn’t laid out enough 
already on them, we must be giving a party, to be sure, 
on their account — gathering a faction of their friends to 
laugh at us I but I’ll go bail, they’ll never do it again, 
at least, in our own house ?” 

“ Well, it serves you right. Miles,” observed Mrs. 
Blake; “you were all turning up your noses at the 
Flanagans, and our old friends, the Beillys and the 
i ' Sheridans — Irish as they are, it would be long before 
they'd act so. I think our own notions of politeness are 
the best after ail, though we don’t make such a parade of 
them. Go to your bed, Eliza 1 and pray to God to give 
you grace to obey the fourth commandment.” 

Eliza said nothing, but there was a smile curling her 
pretty lip, that, to a close observer, would have a world 
of meaning. She kissed her father and mother and left 
the room. 

For some minutes after her departure, there was not a 
word spoken ; the father and mother stood looking at 
each other with a sort of vacant stare. At last Mrs. 
Blake drew a long sigh and spoke. Her words were few 
and ominous. 

“ It’s too late. Miles I too late I our own hands pulled ' 
the rod that’ll whip us in our old age I This is only the 
beginning of it I” 

The father shook his head, but made no answer. 
Such was the close of that festive evening. Achiiag 
hearts and remorseful consciences, and dreary forebodings 
of coming evil : 

“ The dark communing is with God, 

The warning from on high.” 

Leaving the Blakes to rest, if rest they could, after 


154 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


the fatigues of the day, let iis return to our good friend, 
Tim Flanagan. Returning home after his visit to Mrs. 
Blake, already duly recorded, he began to entertain his 
wife with an account of what had passed. Kelly smiled 
and smiled, but she did not seem to enjoy the fun as much 
as Tim had expected. 

“ Sure enough, Tim, it was a good joke,” said she, 
" but I feel too sorry for poor Mary to laugh at it. 
And, then, bow could you reconcile it with your con- 
science, to say that Harry asked you to the party — eb, 
Tim r 

“ Pooh I pooh ! woman dear, that was only a white lie ; 
if I never do more harm than that, I hope it’ll not keep 
me long out of heaven.” 

“ I don’t know about that, Tim ; it’s not good to tell 
a lie, either in jest or earnest. But that’s true ; did you 
see Mrs. Reilly to-day . 

Tim aswered in the negative. 

“ Well ! of all the women ever you saw, she’s the most 
disappointed. She had heard of the great party that 
was to be at Blake’s, and didn’t the poor soul go and 
lay out upwards of twenty dollars for a black silk dress, 
so as to make a decent appearance before the strangers. 

■ It never came into her head but that herself and Tom 
would be at it, and she wanted Tom, rigiit or wrong, to 
get a new suit ; but Tom said his clothes were good 
enough, and he wouldn’t be spending his money foolishly. 
Still he was quite willing for his mother to get the new 
silk dress, for, says he, “ I know you want a decent dress 
at any rate, mother, even if you don't go to the party.” 
Somehow, Tom had his doubts all the time, whether 
they’d be asked or not ; but poor Sally wasn’t so, and 
you never saw a woman in your life so confounded as she 


THE SCENE CHANGES. 


155 


was, when she found herself and Tom, and the whole of 
us, overlooked. She swears she’ll never exchange words 
with one of the Blakes, old or young.” 

“ Poor Sally I” said Tim, with a hearty laugli ; “ it 
was too bad to treat any of us so, but a woman of her 
consequence to be slighted by her own cousin — why, it 
was a downright atirout to the memory of Father 
O'Flynn, and all ihe other great people, not to speak of 
her uncle Pheliin, and her great grand-father,' Terence 
O’Shaughnessy, God be merciful to them all I” added 
Tim, with a sudden change of manner. “ I shouldn't 
speak so lightly of the dead." 

“ I was telling Edward about her disappointment,” re- 
sumed Mrs. Flanagan, “ and he said he’d ask you to have 
them all here some of these evenings, just to please Sally.” 
“ We must give her a chance to show off her new dress, 
mother,” said he, “ that is, if you and my father have no 
objection. Poor Mrs. Reilly ! we will do what we can to 
console her ; and I think our party will be a more con- 
genial one to her than my aunt Blake’s." 

“ God bless his kind heart !” said the father, wiping 
away a tear, which had found its way over his cheek ; 
but it was a tear of joy, not of sorrow. “ That’s so like 
him!— indeed, and he must have the party. Pm going to 
the store uovv, and I’ll speak to him about it. What 
day would you like to have it, Nelly ?” 

“Oh, any day you like. There’s no ceremony about 
our parties, for we never have any one but our own 
friends. We can talk it over when you all come home to 
dinner.” 

“ Well, but I want to go and ask them all.” 

“Very well, this is Wednesday — let it be to-morrow 
evening, then. And, do you hear, Tim,” she called after 


156 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


him, as he was going out, “tell Sally Reilly and Jenny 
Sheridan to come over a while in the forenoon, to give 
me a hand at the cooking.” 

When Tim and his sons came home to dinner, there 
was a good deal of talk about the proposed party, and 
the question naturally arose as to whetl^r the Blakes 
were to be invited or not. Edward was, at first, deci- 
dedly opposed to their being asked ; and his father was 
rather of the same opinion. 

“Not that I owe them any ill-will,” said Edward ; 
“but then, it really does seem to me that they are 
disposed to cut our acquaintance, at least as far as they 
possibly can, and those who can so easily discard old 
friends, and even relatives, for some new acquaintances, 
are hardly worth the trouble of conciliating. The friend- 
ship of such people is but the shadow of a shade.” 

“ True for you, Edward,” said his father ; “ I wouldn’t 
be bothered with them and their high notions ; they 
seem to think far more of these Thomsons, and Greens, 
and all the rest, than they do of us — at least of late 
years. So, as God is so good as to leave us wholly 
independent of them, we’ll just let them run their rig. 
Not a one of them we’ll ask.” 

But Mrs. Flanagan could not agree with these senti- 
ments. Ever kind, and gentle, and forgiving, she had so 
many excuses to offer on behalf of the Blakes, and 
pleaded for them so earnestly, that neither her husband 
nor her son could hold out against her, especially as John 
supported the prayer of her petition. Ellie and Susan 
were delighted at the prospect of having their cousin 
Eliza a whole evening to play and sing for them. 

Only think, father,” said Ellie, “ she has never spent 
-an- eve-ning -with us- since she came home from school. 


A PARTY IN PROSPECT. 


157 


She just called to see us one afternoon, and staid only a 
little while. Susy and I went to their house the other 
day, and we wanted her to play something for us, but 
she said she had some letters to write, and was in a hurry 
for the post.” 

“ I don’t like cousin Lizzy as much as I used to do,” 
cried Susan, who was sitting on a little bench near the 
grate, playing with a favorite kitten ; “ she’s not near 
so kind as she was long ago before she went away to 
school.” 

Edward smiled sadly as he replied : “ You must not 
be too hard on cousin Lizzy, my dear sister. Before she 
left home she was a little girl like yourselves — at least, 
not much older than Ellie is now ; but years have passed 
since then, and cousin Lizzy has become Miss Blake, and 
your romping playmate a young lady. She has been at 
a fashionable school, you know.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you what, Edward,” said Ellie, in her 
own decided way ; “ if that’s what people learn in fashion- 
able schools, I never want to go to one. I want to love 
every one, and have every one love me.” 

Her brother drew her to him and kissed her fair fore- 
head. “ If you can only succeed in that, Ellie, you will 
be a fortunate girl ; to love and to be loved, is the sum 
of life’s happiness. But to return to our subject, father. 
Will you go and see my aunt to-morrow — you can find 
out privately from her whether the others will be willing 
to come or not. If you’U do that part of it. I’ll under- 
take to invite Mrs. Beilly and Tom, and the Sheridans. 
That is, if you wish it.” 

“ All right, Edward, all right ; we’ll , divide the task 
between us. What about Mr. Eitzgibbon — won’t we 
ask him ?” ^ 


158 


BLAKES AXD FLANAGANS. 


1 


“ Oh, to be sure, father ; I’ll see him iu the coarse of 
the evening.” 

Mr. Fitzgibbon was tlie successor of poor Mr. Lanigan 
in St. Peter’s School, tlie good old man having paid the 
de.bt of nature some three or four years before. 

These matters being all arranged, lidward took out of 
bis vest pocket a tiny parcel, nicely wrapt up in tissue 
paper. “ Come here, girls,” said he to Eliza and Susan, 
“ I was forgetting a very important alfair. I met a 
person this forenoon who sent a present to two good girla 
— if 1 could find them anywhere.” 

“ Oh ! we’re good, Edward ; we’re good — give it to 
me — and me !” cried both girls. 

Self-praise is no commendation,” replied Edward, 
with a smile, “ but if mother will answer for you, I’ll see 
what can be done !” 

“ Oh ! well, if that’s the way, I haven’t much to say 
against them.” 

The parcel was then opened, and was, found to contain 
two miniature pairs of silver beads. The girls clapped 
their hands for joy, and, running up to their brother, 
threw their arms round his neck and kissed him on either 
cheek. “ Ha! ha!” said Susan, archly ; “ 1 know very well 
who sent the beads — it was your own self — nobody else !” 

“ What a witch our Susan is !” said her brother, 
placing her on a low seat beside him — “ no matter who 
the giver is, Susy dear ! he gives them on the condition 
that you and Ellie shall use them every day. Remember 
that, my sweet sisters, and don’t ever forget him in your 
prayers !” 

“ There now, Nelly,” said Tim, with assumed gravity, 

you see that’s the way Edward’s money goes !” and his 
voice trembled with emotion. 


A HAPPY PA KILT. 


150 


God’s blessing be about him, I know it well !” ^id 
the fond mother, “ if every young man of his age was 
like him, there would be few broken hearts amongst 
fathers and mothers !” 

“ Take care, mother,” said Edward, gaily ; “ take 
care that you don't make me proud. You know flattery 
is always dangerous, and never more so than when it 
comes from those whom we love and honor. Well, 
father, are you coming back to the store — if not, John 
and I will go, for we may be wanted before now !” 

“ Indeed, and that’s true, Edward, it's hardly prudent 
for all of us to come home together, and leave the 'store 
to strangers, let them be ever so honest.” 

“ Well, father,” said John, “ I’ll stay every day till 
you and Edward come back. I can wait very well, and 
I’d just as soon do it.” 

“ No, no, John,” replied his brother, “ it will be much 
better for me to stay, as I can take a hand at any branch 
of the business. For the future, then, you and John can 
come together, father, and it will be time enough for me 
when you get back.” 

This new arrangement met with general approbation, 
and as Tim Flanagan walked back to his store between 
his two sons, there was not a happier, or a more grateful 
man in the whole city. His heart overflowed with joy, 
and he asked himself over and over again, “ What have 
I done that God is so bountiful to me — how can I repay 
him for all his wonderful goodness to me and mine?” 
From the depth of his own heart came back the answer : 
“As you sowed, so you are reaping — as you brought up 
your children, so you have them !” 

But still Tim kept thanking God, and praising his 
holy name, and wondering how ht came to be so highly 
favored. 


160 


B L A K E S 


AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER X 

A FAMILY PARTY AT TIM FLANAGAN^S. 

The greater part of that eventful Thursday was spent 
by Mrs. Flanagan and her two trusty friends, Mrs. Reilly 
and Mrs. Sheridan, in making preparations for the coming 
festival. Their joint experience in the culinary art was 
called into requisition, and the result was highly credit- 
able to all concerned. One made cakes, another tarts, 
another custards, jellies, and blanc mange, Ellie and 
Susan helping every one in turn, wherever their services 
were most needed. It was a great day — that Thursday 
— a day of pleasurable excitement and joyous bustle from 
morning till night. When all the necessary cooking was 
finished, and ranged on the pantry shelves, ready for use, 
Mrs. Reilly and Mrs. Sheridan “made off home,” as they 
said themselves, “for it was getting near dinner-time, and 
there would be many a look-out for them.” 

“ Now mind and come early this evening I” was Mrs. 
Flanagan’s parting charge. 

“And, Sally ! tell Tom not to forget his fiddle — if he 
does, he’ll only have the trouble of trotting back for it.” 

As the two friends walked home together, they very 
naturally communicated their thoughts to each other, as 
most people do in similar circumstances. 


A FAMILY P A R T V . 


161 


Well ! isn’t she the kind, sociable, friendly creature!” 
said iSIrs. Sheridan, “ no airs or nonsense about her, for 
all she’s so well off. But sure it’s the same with the 
whole family I Tim himself is just as plain and homely 
in his way, and as glad to see us all about him as he was 
when he was poor and hard-set to make out a decent 
living for his family. And the boys — there’s Edward, 
that’s as fine a young man as you’d see in the city, and 
as much like a gentleman in his dress and manners, and 
yet he’ll talk to us so cordially, and treat us with so much 
respect, that we’re all quite at home with him. There’s 
a blessing on the same family, old and young 1” 

“ What you say is true enough, Jenny, dear,” observed 
her friend ; “ they’re a credit to the old stock. There’s 
Tim, and he’s the born image of my Uncle Patrick, that 
was steward to Lord Incledon, and as for Edward, why 
you’d swear he was a son of my grandfather’s — he’s just 
as like him as he can be — you never saw my grandfather, 
though he was your grand-uncle by the mother’s side.” 

“No, I never saw him,” replied the other, with a quiet 
smile, “but he must have been very handsome in his 
young days, if he was like Edward Flanagan.” 

“ In his young days I” repeated Mrs. Reilly, with 
strong emphasis, “ ay I and in his old days — he was one 
of the finest old men you ever laid an eye on. I’m sorry 
you’re so near ho4ne now, or I’d tell you more about 
him.” 

“ Oh I never mind, another time will do as well ; I’m 
afraid Daniel and the children must be getting hungry by 
this time.” 

“And poor Tom, too — I was forgetting all about the 
dinner, Jenny until you reminded me of it. Good bye 
till evening 1” . 


162 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Well, evei)i»)g came at last, and with it came all the 
friends and connections of the Flanagans. There was 
Dan Sheridan, his wife, their son Mike, and' a young 
daughter named Annie, about Ellen Flanagan's age. 
There was Mrs. Reilly in her new black silk gown, and a 
pretty tarlton cap ihade for the occasion. With her came 
lier son Tom, carrying his fiddle-case under his arm, his 
hair brushed up in a stylish top-knot, and he otherwise 
looking “every inch a man.’’ Then there was Mr. Fitz- 
gibbon of St, Peter’s School, a grave, silent old bache- 
lor of forty-five, dressed with scrupulous neatness and 
precision, from the top of bis head to the sole of his foot. 
A very imposing personage was Mr. Fitzgibbon, much 
given to words of “ learned length,” and strongly 
addicted to the use of snuff*, yet withal a very excellent 
man, and right worthy to fill the place of the lamented 
Jeremiah Lauigan. 

There was also a certain Mr. O'Calloghau, a widower, 
whose pretty daughter, Margaret, was the belle of the 
evening, although quite unconscious of the notice she 
attracted. Last of all came in Mr, and Mrs. Blake, 
the latter sparkling with jewels and robed in rich bro- 
cade. Their entrance made quite a sensation. 

“Here comes Mrs. Blake,” said Mike Sheridan, 
“moving under finery, as usual. Hush, now ! not a word 
till their majesties are fairly seated. But where have 
they left the prince and princess? — I say, A’ed, where 
are your cousins ?” 

“Kot here, certainly,” replied Edward with a smile ; 
“ I hardly expected the honor of their company. But 
it may be all for the better ; they are now, I grieve to 
say, neither with us nor of us. Their presence would 
only throw a damp on our festivity.” 


A FAMILY PARTY. 


163 


Conversation bad been flowing pretty freely before the 
appearance of ^Ir. and Mrs. Blake, and, though there 
was a general silence for some few minutes after that 
grand event, the ice was not suffered to thicken, for Mr. 
Fitzgibbou took up the broken thread. 

“As I was saying, Mr. O’Callaghan,” said he, “ it is 
my conviction that the schoolmaster or mistress is either 
the bane or blessing of society, according as he or she 
inculcates good or bad principles. Yes, sir, that fact is, 
I think, morally certain” 

“Not a doubt of it,” said jMr. O'Callaghan ; “for my 
part, I have never been able to undersiand tlie folly of 
those parents who knowingly place their children in the 
way of acquiring false princi[)les. I would as soon think 
of putting my child into a burning house as into a non- 
religious school.” 

Whether Mr. O’Callaghan had forgotten the presence 
of Miles Blake, or that he really intended the observa- 
tion for his ear. Miles took upon hitnself to answer. 
“That is all very fine talking, Mr. O’Callaghan, as you 
have oidy a daughter, (no disparagement to the ladies, 
mind !) if you had a son you might probably wish to see 
him grow up an enlightened American, instead of a boor- 
ish, old fashioned, half in-half Irishman — especially if you 
intended him for a profession.” 

There was something in the tone, as weli as the words, 
of this speech, that gave oflence to Mr. Fitzgibbou, and 
in a lesser degree to O’Callaghan himself. 

“ Really, Mr. Blake,” said Fitzgibbou, “ one would 
suppose, to hear you talk, that there uevar teas an enligh- 
tened Irishman. Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that Irish 
teachers are not as fully competent to form the mind and 
cultivate the intellect as Americans, or any others ? Or, 


164 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS 


are we to suppose that it is the religion of most Irish 
teachers to which you object ? Is il, sir, our religion or 
our nationality — our Irish origin, or our Romish tenden- 
cies, that make us unfit for enlightening the mind 
have the goodness to answer me, Mr. Blake !” 

“ I don’t mean to find fault with Irish teachers,” replied 
Mr. Blake ; “far from it, but I’ve a sort of a notion that 
as our sons must grow up Americans, whether we like it 
or not, and have got to live amongst Americans, they had 
better learn from their infancy ‘ to do as the Romans do 
you understand me, I hope ? My idea is, that men can’t 
be Irishmen and Americans at the same time ; they must 
be either one or the other.” 

“ I beg your pardon, uncle,” said Edward Flanagan, 
“ I cannot agree with you there. I myself am a living 
proof that your position is a false one. I was brought up, 
as you well know, under Catholic — nay, more, under Irish 
training ; I am Irish in heart — Catholic, I hope, in faith 
and practice, and yet I am fully prepared to stand by this 
great Republic, the land of my birth, even to shedding 
the last drop of my blood, were that necessary. I love 
America ; it is, as it were, the land of my adoption, as 
well as of my birth, but I cannot, or will not, forget Ire- 
land. I pity the Irishman’s son who can or does, for 
his heart must be insensible to some of the highest and 
holiest feelings of our nature. Yes, my dear uncle, I am 
both Irish and American, and so I will continue, with 
God’s help.” 

“ Give me your hand, Edward 1” said O’Callaghan, 
warmly; “ would that all Irish- Americans were like you !” 

“ I have great pleasure in recording my sentiments 
of approbation,” added Fitzgibbon. “ Your mind is 
rightly constituted, my young ^friend, and well-balanced. 




A FAMILY PARTY. 


165 


I should like to hear you answer your nephew, Mr. 
Blake.” 

“ I think he ought to be the yery last man to speak in 
favor of mixed schools — or rather anti-Catholic schools,” 
observed Tim ; “ I’d wager a trifle that if he’d only speak 
his real mind, he’s as much against them as any of us. 
Now, Miles, be candid for once, and speak out like a man I 
Are you or are you not in favor of mixed schools, as you 
used to be years ago ?” he added, in a whisper, meant 
only for Miles’s ear. 

Mrs. Flanagan here interposed, seeing a cloud gathering 
on Miles’s brow. “ I think it’s high time you were all get- 
ting your feet in order for a dance,” said she ; “ Edward, 
what are you about, that you’re not getting up a set of 
quadrilles or something of the kind ?” 

“ Quadrilles do not come first on my programme, mo- 
ther,” replied Edward, “ Tom and I have it arranged 
that you and my father shall open the ball with an Irish 
jig. Either that, or my uncle and aunt Blake will join 
you in a Scotch reel.” 

“ Never say it twice,’’ ciled Tim, starting to his feet, 
and crossing to where his sister sat. “Up with you, 
Mary, and let us show these youngsters what we can do. 
Miles, go you and take Nelly. Why, what’s come over 
you both that you’re so lazy ? — look at Nelly, how light 
and airy she looks — there, now, we’re all out at last. 
Who’s going to play for us ?” 

“ I am, sir, with your permission,” said Tom Reilly, 
from the further end of the room, “ What shall 1 give 
you ?” 

“ Something lively, Tom,” whispered Elbe at liis elbow; 
“ it’s a good while since father and mother danced any, so 
you must make them pay their footing.” 




166 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Edward went over, and, stooping down, said something 
in a low voice to Tom, who immediately struck up that 
fine reel, known as Mrs. McLeod’s. 

The effect was instantaneous : off went the two cou- 
ples, like so many lapwings, all seemingly inspired by the 
lively strain. The young people enjoyed the sight as 
much as if they were dancing themselves, and Mike 
Sheridan induced his father to get up and take a part- 
ner. 

“ Take out my mother, father,” cried Mike ; “ don’t 
take any excuse — make her dance — it will do her good, 
and I want to see you and her having a share of the 
fun.” 

“Well, we’ll not disappoint you, Mike dear,” said his 
mother ; “I didn’t intend to dance any to-night, but for 
your sake I will, just to let you see that your mother is 
not getting old yet.” 

“ Well done, Mrs. Slieridan ! that’s a good eyample,” 
cried Edward, seeing Daniel and his wife standing up to 
dance. “ ^'ow, Mr. O’Cali aghan, won’t you step out, 
too ?” 

“Why, I declare, I can’t get over it,” said Mr. O’Cal- 
laghan, rising, and making his bow to Mrs. Reilly. 

“ Oh, Mr. O’Callaghan, you must e.xtuse said the 
widow ; “ 1 never danced a step since poor John’s death, 
and never will, please God ! Don’t take it ill of me, sir, 
for if it weren’t for that, I’d dance with you as soon as 
any one in the room. I would, indeed, Mr. O’Callaghan, 
but it wouldn’t be either decent or proper to see a widow 
dancing. It wouldn’t agree with this cap, or this black 
black dress.” 

Mr. O’Callaghan respected her scruples, and passed on 
with a smile to Elbe Flanagan. 


A FA MILT PARTY. 


167 


“Will you dance a reel, Miss Ellie ? I’m sorry Pm not 
a younger man for your sake, but as I can find no other 
partner, I know you’ll not be so cruel as to deprive an 
old man of a dance for want of a partner.” 

“ No, indeed, sir,” said Ellie, standing up ; “ Pm not 
sure whether I can dance a reel or not, but I think I 
can ; so Pm willing to try.” 

The reel was thus made double, and was kept up with 
great spirit by 

“ The dancing pairs who simply sought renown, 

By holding out to tire each other down.” 


The reel was further animated throughout by a running 
fire of laughing comments and good-humored ejaculations 
from the dancers themselves, especially Tim Flanagan 
and Dan Sheridan. 

“ Well done, Mary ! — keep it up for the honor of old 
Bally waiter.” 

*' That’s you Jenny ! — by the powers you’re mending 
on it I’^ 

“ Hillo 1 Miles Blake, what are you thinking of? 
You’ll be left behind if you don’t stir yourself!” 

“ Very good, indeed, Ellie !” said Mr. O’Callaghan ; 
“ I see you can dance a reel, and well, too.” Ellie only 
smiled. It was just her time to turn. 

“ What an animating sight I” observed Margaret 
O’Callaghan, as Edward took a chair near her. 

“ Yes,” said Edward, “ it is a sight of joy and happi- 
ness to me.. How my dear father enters into the sjiirit 
of the dance, seemingly forgetful of all the world besides ; 
and my mother— just look at her, Margaret I see how 
happy she looks, and how pretty, too, with her sweet 


168 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


smiling face. Yes, that is a sight which does one’s heart 
good.” 

“ And my father,” said Margaret, “ would you e7er 
suppose he could dance a reel like that? He’s just as 
light on his foot as if he were no more than twenty- 
five I” ' 

“ That will do, Tom, that will do !” cried Tim, swing- 
ing his bulky partner to a seat. “ They’re all tired, take 
my word for it.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Dan, leading his wife to her seat, “ you 
may say so now, just to cover your own defeat ; you 
can’t deny but you were first off the floor ?” 

“ Well, if we were, we were first on it, Dan — you can’t 
deny that. Tom. who told you to play ‘ Mrs. McLeod ?’ ” 

“ It was Edward, sir ; he told me he had a reason for 
it.” 

“ Ah, the rogue, so he had ! — he had heard his mother 
and me say that we danced that at his aunt Mary’s 
wedding, when Nelly was only a slip of a girl, and after- 
wards at our own. Did you notice that, Nelly?” 

“ Oh ! mayhe I didn’t ! — it was that very thing made 
me dance as I did — I almost forgot that I wasn’t a bride 
again ! — eh, Mary ! what do you say I did the music 
bring back anythiiig to you ?” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Blake, and she was observed to wipe 
away a tear ; “yes, Nelly, I might just say as you did 
yourself — it made me forget the present altogether. 
What put it in your head, Edward, to get that played 
for us ?” 

“ My father has already answered your question, my 
dear aunt — when I saw you all four out together, it just 
occurred to me, that you had pleasant associations con- 
nected with that lively strain I” 


A FAMILY PARTY. 


169 


“ Many thanks to you, Edward,’’ said his father gaily, 
**your thought, I must say, was a happy one.” 

Mrs. Blake was silent. She looked at her husband, 
and saw from the changed expression of his face, that he, 
too, was thinking of a painful contrast. 

“ Now for a set of quadrilles,” said Edward ; “ what 
music are we to have — piano or violin ?” 

“ I vote for the latter,” cried Tom, ever ready to 
oblige ; “ I’m not tired yet, so if you’re all satisfied with 
my playing, you’re quite welcome to it.” 

“ Well I I consent,” said Edward, “ to let you play this 
set, but mind I play the next.” 

“Why doesn’t Margaret play ?” said Mr. O’Callaghan. 

“ Oh 1 her turn will come by and bye,” said gentle 
Mrs. Flanagan ; “ let her have her dance first.” 

Two or three sets of quadrilles were then danced, 
including the Lancers and the Graces. Then came cotil- 
lons, and lastly, the whole party, old and young, except 
Margaret, who furnished the music, were on the floor at 
once, jigging away to the enlivening tune of Sir Roger 
de Coverley. 

Yarious songs were sung during the evening, filling up 
very agreeably the pauses of the dancing. Mr. O’Cal- 
laghan was an ardent lover of Ireland and everything Irish. 
Tom Moore was, in his opinion, the first of modern poets 
— in fact, ancient or modern, there was not one who came 
so near Mr. O’Callaghan’s ideas of a great poet. His 
daughter sang most of the melodies with much feeling 
and good taste. She played well, and had a very good 
voice, highly cultivated, for her father had spared no 
expense on her education, particularly as regarded music. 

Taking her place at the piano on Edward’s invitation, 
Margaret ran her fingers lightly over the keys in a grace-. 

S 


170 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


ful prelude, asking at the same time: ‘“What shall I 
sing 

“ Anything you like !” was the general answer. 

After a moment’s thought, she began Moore’s beauti- 
ful song to the air of the Cooliii : 

“ Tho’ the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see.” 


There was breathless silence while she sang, for the words 
and the music are both full of the most exquisite pathos, 
and Margaret’s voice was one of thrilling sweetness. 
When the last faint cadence of the symphony died away, 
there was a loud and prolonged burst of applause. Ed- 
ward only was silent, but Margaret knew full well that 
his silence was more expressive of admiration than any 
words he could have spoken. 

“ Now, Mr. Edward,” said Margaret, looking timidly 
up, “ I believe I have a call. Will you favor us with a 
song ?” 

“ Oh, certainly ; but some one must choose what I am 
to sing. Mother, will yon ?” 

“ Sing that new song that you got last week, Edward. 
We’re all quite taken with it here,” said she aside to her 
sister-in-law. “ I don’t know whether you ever heard it 
or not.” 

So Edward took a seat at the end of the piano, and 
began his song : 

“ Of what is the old man thinking, 

As he leans on his oaken staff, 

From the May-day pastime shrinking, 

He shares not the merry laugh. 

But the tears of the old man flow, 

As he looks on the young and gay, 

And his grey head moving slow, 

• Keeps time to the air they play. 


A FAMILY PARTY. ’ 111 

The elder around him are drinking, 

But not one cup will he quaff — 

Of what Is the old man thinking, 

As he leans on his oaken staff? 

“ There’s a spell in the air they play. 

And the old man’s eyes are dim. 

For it calls up a past May-day, 

And the dear friends lost to him. 

From the scene before him shrinking, — 

The dance and the merry laugh. 

Of their calm repose he is thinking. 

As he leans on his oaken staff.” 

The song was ended, and all present were enraptured 
with the pretty air and the simple, touching words, not to 
speak of the masterly style in which it was sung. 

“ Do you know,” said Edward, “ that that song always 
reminds me of poor Mr. Lanigau, now dead and gone ? I 
cannot tell why, but so it is. I can just fancy the good 
old man leaning on his oaken staff — that venerable staff 
which he bequeathed to me as a souvenir of the years 
I spent under his tuition. Pyior Mr. Lanigan !” added 
Edward in a tone of deep feeling, “ may he rest in peace!” 

“ Amen !” repeated all present, with the exception of 
Miles Blake. 

“ Poor Mr. Lanigan I” repeated Mike Sheridan, with 
more seriousness than he usually manifested on any sub- 
ject — “many a time he shook that same oaken staff at 
me by way of gentle admonition I” 

“ And many a time he followed it up with some useful 
hints applied to a place that shall be nameless. Eh, 
Mike ?’•’ 

“Now, Tom, that’s not fair,” replied Mike with his 
accustomed good-humor — “ you know you shouldn’t tell 
tales out of school.” 


1^2 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ What I not at any given time — say ten years after 
the events recorded ? Tell the truth now, Mike, do you 
forgive our old master for all the hard treatment he gave 
you ?” 

“ From my heart out I do I” said Mike, warmly — 
“ God knows I do ! — it was all for my own good, and if 
I had taken more of his advice, and remembered his 
punishments longer, it would be better for me now ; but, 
where’s the use of looking back — we’re all marching 
straight ahead, whether we will or no. Come, I’ll give 
you a song myself.” 

Now Mike’s voice was none of the best, and he knew 
that well, but he saw that the conversation was taking a 
serious turn, and determined to raise a laugh ; whether 
with him or at him, Mike did not care — all he wanted was 
to keep up the fun. With that intention he sang “ The 
King of the Cannibal Islands,” and by the time it was 
finished there was not a grave countenance in the room, 

“ Is that enough ?” asked Mike, very composedly, “ or 
shall I give you ‘ The Wake of Teddy the Tiler,’ to the 
same tune ?” 

“ For goodness’ sake, don’t I” cried his mother, as soon 
as she could speak for laughing ; “do you mean to kill 
us outright ? why, you have no more voice than a mag- 
pie !” 

“ Well, mother I — best can do no more !” 

A few more songs were sung by the young people, 
while their fathers and mothers amused themselves at 
spoiled five,” with an occasional rubber of whist. 

The only drawback on the general enjoyment seemed 
to be the absence of Thomas and Peter, both of whom 
were prosecuting their studies at Mount St. Mary’s, 
Emmetsburg, As to Henry and Eliza their names were 


A FAMILY PARTY. 


173 


ncYcr mentioned, eyen by their own parents. Occa- 
sionally, indeed, they would exchange glances of sad 
import, when any incident brought them to their minds 
by force of contrast. Neither could they enjoy them- 
selves as the others did. Their minds were not attuned 
to the light-hearted gaiety of such a meeting, and they 
had, moreover, a painful consciousness that they were 
separated by an unaccountable barrier from the relatives 
and friends amongst whom they were. Not that there 
was the slightest manifestation of coldness towards them 
on the part of any one present, but the memory of the 
recent slight so deliberately put on these very persons, 
was, in itself, a mill-stone round their necks. Miles 
attempted to conceal his very uncomfortable feelings by 
an extra assumption of dignity, while his wife, on the 
contrary, endeavored to appear as “ free and easy ’’ as 
though nothing were amiss, but, in both cases, the veil 
was too thin to answer the purpose, and only served to 
make the truth more painfully manifest. Tim and his 
wife did all they could to make Mr. and Mrs. Blake feel 
quite at home ; they were ably and cordially seconded 
by Edward, but somehow neither of the girls could make 
any advances in that direction. Once or twice Susan 
went, by her mother’s orders, to speak to her aunt, and 
Mrs. Blake did all she could to encourage an intimacy, 
but all wms in vain, Susan could not forget how, on a cer- 
tain day, her aunt had ordered her out of the parlor, 
“ because the Misses Thomson were coming in.” Ever 
since that, Susan had an idea that “ xiunt Mary didn’t 
like her as well as she used to do,” hence her coolness on 
the present occasion. 

Mrs. Reilly could neither forgive nor forget her recent 
disappointment. Her conversation the whole evening 


lU 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


was levelled at the Blakes, and she took right good care 
to station herself so that they could not fail to hear her. 
There she sat “ in silken robe arrayed,” looking as though 
the ancestral dignity of all her line were centered in her 
own proper person. Her memory was ransacked for all the 
facts most honorable to her ancient house, and these she 
retailed with an emphasis truly remarkable, and a perti- 
nacity by no means agreeable to those who chanced to be 
her immediate listeners. The stories they had all heard 
a hundred times, at least, and though most of those pre- 
sent were descended from the same ancestral line, they 
could well have dispensed with such frequent repetition 
of its glories, past, present, or future. Mrs. Reilly was 
in her element, uplifted, as it were on the wings of 
memory to a position of respectable height. 

Still the evening passed pleasantly away, and no one 
was sensible of the lapse of time. But, 


“ Never does time travel faster 
Than when his way lies among flowers,” 

so “ the witching hour of night” was close at hand before 
any of the party (except perhaps, Mr. and Mrs. Blake) 
dreamed of it’s being so late. There was a general ex- 
clamation that it was time to be moving, but Tim declar- 
ed they must all have deoch-a-dhorhas before they started 
“ And ni give you a song while you drink it,” said he, 
*‘just a verse for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. He ac- 
cordingly sang the good old Scotch song — 

“ Good night an’ joy be wi’ ye a’.” 

When he came to the lines — 

“ An’ should it happen In after years 

That you should stagger or chance to fa*, 


A FAMILY PARTY. 


175 


I’ll reach to you the helping han’. 

Good night and joy be wi’ ye a’,” 

there was a general shaking of hands, warm and genial 
as the Irish heart. That was the characteristic close of 
the entertainment. Cloaking and shawling were quickly- 
dispatched, and the guests retired to their homes, well 
pleased with themselves and every one else. Even Miles 
had unbent more than a little, and took his share of the 
“ right good williewaught ” meant to perpetuate the re- 
membrance of “ Auld Lang Syne.” 

Henry and Eliza declared that “ the governor ” bad 
taken “ ower-muckle,” and were highly scandalized. They 
did not think it worth their while to speak to “ the old 
couple ” on the subject, but to their distinguished friends 
they discoursed pretty freely on the tippling habits of the 
Irish. 

Now I have great pleasure in stating that there was 
not the slightest foundation for this unkind remark on the 
occasion in question. Miles was quite as sober as his son, 
when the latter looked up from the book he had been 
reading, and said, with a sneer — 

“ Shall I help you up stairs, sir ?” 

“ Get out, you coxcomb I” was the father’s prompt 
reply. “What’s to hinder me from going up stairs 
myself ?” 

“ Oh ! nothing in the world, father — only I thought 
you felt tired after dancing so much I I meant no harm, 
sir, I do assure you 1” But his mocking tone belied his 
words. 

“ Yes, you did mean harm,” said his father, angrily, 
“ and I command you never to speak to me again in such 
a way — if you do ” 

“ You command me, father 1” repeated the son, with 


1^6 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


his sneering smile, “ but suppose I do not choose to ht 
commanded — what then V' 

“ Come up stairs, Miles — it’s very late !” said Mrs. 
Blake, her heart sinking within her. “ You ought to be 
in bed, Henry I instead of sitting poring over them books. 
I suppose Eliza’s in bed two hours ago.” Eliza was not 
in bed ; she was reading in her own room. 

At first Miles resisted his wife’s entreaty, but after a 
moment’s pause, he yielded to the gentle pressure of her 
arm, and followed her up stairs, muttering as he went — 
** another time will do as well.” 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. ITt 


CHAPTER XI. 

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 

It was “ past twelve ” when Tim Flanagan’s guests 
quitted his hospitable dwelling, and as we have seen Mr. 
and Mrs. Blake home, we cannot do less than return for 
some of the others. Now we would have great pleasure 
in accompanying Mrs. Reilly and her son, or Mr. O’ Cal- 
laghan and his daughter, to their respective domiciles ; 
but for the present we must, however unwillingly, over- 
look their claims to our attention, in order to see what 
befell the Sheridans, for whom we have no small regard. 
They were walking home very quietly, Daniel and his 
wife before, and Mike following close behind with his 
young sister. The great city was silent and motionless, 
save where the lurid light and the discordant sounds of 
drunken revelry, issuing from an open door, proclaimed 
the gin-shop or the low tavern, or perhaps the filthy 
brothel — places wherein are perpetrated those “deeds 
unholy” — that make night hideous to contemplate. 

It so happened that the Sheridans had to pass a 
tavern of the very lowest description, and as they came 
near the door, Daniel turned round and said in a low voice 
to his son, “Don’t say a word, Mike, till we get past 

8 * 


ns SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

Boner’s, for I hear such a noise in it that I’m sure it’s full. 
Keep quiet now and let us all hurry on.’’ 

“All right, father — ^go ahead I” said Mike; “we’ll he 
as quiet as mice.” 

He had hardly said the word when out from Boner’s 
came two or three rowdy-looking fellows, evidently the 
worse for liquor. They were just felicitating themselves 
on having outwitted the landlord, and one of them, a fine, 
strapping young fellow, in a round slop-jacket, and a 
white hat with a black band, said with a horse-laugh, “I 
guess I done him slick that time, for all so wide-awake as 
he is ? didn’t I, Jim ?” 

“1 guess you did, Hugh — the old shark got bit for 
once. Ha I ha I” 

“ But who have we here !” said the first speaker, un- 
luckily catching a glimpse of Annie Sheridan’s fair face. 
“ I say, boys, there goes a first-rate gal — who’ll try his 
fortune ? — I will, for one !” 

“Go it, old fellow I” cried both of his comrades ; 
“ we’ll stand to you like bricks.” 

The Sheridans quickened their pace almost to a run, 
but it was no use, their ruffianly pursuers were still close 
behind. 

“ For God’s sake hurry on, children !” said the mother, 
in a thrilling whisper, and not daring to turn her head. 

“ There’s two of them,” said one of the ruffians — the 
fellow addressed as Jim — “ let’s us knock down the fel- 
lows and we’ll have them slick. Come along, we’re three 
to two, and one of them’s an old ’un.” 

“ Not so old as you think,” said Dan%) himself ; “young 
enough and strong enough to deal with the like of you 
the best day ever you were.” 

“ A fine night. Miss I” said the fellow called Hugh, 


I 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 179 


coming up close to poor Annie, whose little heart throbbed 
as though it would burst its prison. Now it so happened 
that Mike had borrowed Edward Flanagan’s highly valued 
oak stick, observing, half in jest and half in earnest, that 
it might be useful before he got home. This trusty friend 
he clutched lovingly in his right hand, keeping his eye 
steadily fixed on the other, in whom he had at once 
recognized an old acquaintance. 

“ Not so fast there I” cried the drunken assailant ; 
“ I’m bound to have a look at this here gal. I say, young 
woman, won’t you take my arm?” at the same time 
catching the terrified girl by the shoulder. 

“ Hands off I” cried Mike ; “ don’t dare to lay a finger 
on her I” and drawing his sister from the ruffian’s grasp, 
he gave her to her mother, who turned on the instant. 
“ Your’e in the wrong shop this time, my fine fellow I” 

“ Oh Mike dear I” said his mother, “let them alone. 
Do, for God’s sake I see, we’re almost at home.” “ Be 
quiet, Jenny,” said Dan, “ Mike won’t fight if he can 
help it. Don’t be frightened, but hurry on with 
Annie !” 

The name thus twice repeated was not lost on the 
assailant. “ Ha, Mike Sheridan, that’s you, is it ?” he 
cried in a hoarse voice. “ 1 know you of old, and I owe 
you one — I do ! Jim, pitch into the old feller ; and. 
Bill, you look after the gal I — they’re in for it now, 
by I” and he swore an awful oath. 

“Are we so ?” said Mike, coolly, as he placed his back 
against the wall and flourished his good stick. “ I know 
y:u, too, Hugh Dillon, and I’m as little afraid of you 
now, swaggering bully that you are, as I was nine years 
ago when I soused you in the gutter. I don’t want to 
have anything to do with you, if you’ll only let us pass, 


180 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

but I think you ought to know of old that I’ll not be 
bullied by any one.” 

The answer was a blow of Dillon’s sledge-like fist, 
which Mike dexterously warded olf and returned with 
the whole weight of his stick, which came with stunning 
effect on Dillon’s crown, smashing through his white 
rowdy-hat, and knocked him senseless to the ground. 
Meanwhile, Dan was engaged hand to fist with the ruffian 
Jim, who, seeing his comrade prostrate and motionless, 
began to think the affair rather too serious for his liking ; it 
was just as much as he could do to defend himself from 
Dan’s vigorous attack, and before he could make up his 
mind what to do, Mike’s stick came whirUng through the 
air and down on his right arm, which fell powerless by 
his side. The fellow roared out like an elephant, 

“ Curse you, you’ve broken my arm !” 

“ Curse yourself, and not me I” was the cool reply. 
** It wasn’t my fault. — I hope you’re not hurt, father I” 
but his father did not answer ; he had run off in pursuit 
of Bill, who had followed Mrs. Sheridan and Annie. See- 
ing this, Mike hastened away, leaving one of the van- 
quished to look after the other, and just came up in time 
to see his father dismissing the valiant Bill with a kick 
on his posterior, telling him to take that by way of a 
keepsake. Mrs. Sheridan and her daughter had just got 
into the house, where Nancy, the maid-servant, had been 
sitting up waiting for them. 

“ Never mind wakening the men, Jenny I” said her 
husband from without, “ Mike and I have settled the fel- 
lows ourselves. Here comes Mike and his shillelagh. Did 
you see that last move, Mike ? Didn’t I give Bill what 
he was working for ?” 

“You did, indeed, father 1” said Mike, laughing hear- 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 181 


tily, “ what a great lubberly poltroon the fellow is 1” 

“ Poltroon !” repeated Dan ; “ faith I made him a pol- 
troon, for I gave him the weight of my list before you 
came up, and that cooled his courage wonderfully. The 
rest was all smooth water.” 

By this time the door was secured — the mother and 
daughter laughed and wept by turns, and Nancy was 
almost beside herself with joy when she heard how her 
master and his son had drubbed the rascals. 

“ Pll tell you what, Mike !” said his hither, “ I thiuk 
we ought to hang that stick over the fire-place, as they 
used to hang up swords and guns in old times. It did us 
good service tlys very night. I hope you’re not hurt any- 
where ?” 

“ Nothing worth speaking of, father — I think I sprained 
my wrist making that blow at your friend Jim — but it 
doesn’t signify.” 

Mrs. Sheridan’s anxiety thus aroused, she speedily went 
about preparing a linament and a bandage, and Mike’s 
arm was very soon bound up and resting in a sling. 

“ I wish you joy of your admirer, Annie I” said Mike, 
with a smile. “ Do you know who he is ?” 

Annie began to pout. She was only fourteen, though 
tall for her age, and she was really so far behind the age 
as to feel ashamed at any allusion of the kind. “ No, I 
don’t know him,” said she, “ nor I don’t want to know 
him. He’s a nasty big bad man. that’s what he is !” 

“ Did you know him, father ?” inquired Mike earnestly. 

“ Know him ! to be sure I did — wasn’t it that vaga- 
bond Dillon ? didn’t I hear what you and he said to each 
other ?” 

“ Why, now, Dan,” said Mrs. Sheridan, “ can it be 


182 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


possible that he’s so far gone as that ? — a decent father^j 
and mother’s child as he undoubtedly is.” 

“ Well, decent or no decent,” said Dan bluntly, “ there p 
he is for you. If his father and mother were decent, 
they were neither wise nor prudent — that’s all we can 
say. Our Mike here is bad enough in all conscience, 
but I hope in God he’ll never come so low as that, eh, 
Mike ? — but, indeed, I shouldn’t have a heavy word on 
you this night, my poor fellow ! after you fighting for us 
all so bravely. There’s my hand, Mike, that I was only 
in jest. With all your little wildness, you never gave an 
ill word to your mother or me, nor a sore heart— I’ll say 
that much for you !” and the tear of affection glistened 
in the father’s eye. 

Mike cleared his throat once or twice before he 
attempted to answer. “ Small thanks to me for that, 
father I I’d be worse than Judas if I could ever forget 
your goodness to me, and, please God, I never will ! I’m 
bad enough at times, I know, and gets past myself with 
merriment, but I hope I’ll never lose sight of the fourth 
commandment, as poor old Mr. Lanigan used to say.” 

“ May the Lord bless you, Mike !” said his mother, as 
she laid her hand on his head and smoothed down his rich 
aubnni hair with a mother’s fondness. “ You must go to 
bed now, my son I for you’re in need of rest, and so is 
your father.” 

“ I hope that unfortunate Dillon isn’t badly hurt,” said 
Mike, thoughtfully, “ I know he was only stunned, for I 
saw him beginning to move as I ran off to help you, 
father.” 

“ Even if he was hurt,” said Dan, shortly, “ he got 
nothing but what he deserved. You needn’.t bother 
yourself about him. Go to bed and try to get some 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 183 

sleep. Thanks be to God, it^s no worse with us than 
it is !’’ 

Leaviufij Mike to woo “ tired Nature’s sweet restorer,” 
we will take a retrospective glance at the career which 
had brought Hugh Dillon to such a state of moral desti- 
tutiou. He was the only son of a respectable and indus- 
trious carpenter ; a man who was considered well-to-do 
in the world, employed two or three journeymen, and was 
seldom without some contract. His family consisted of 
his wife and three children, the eldest of whom was our 
luckless acquaintance, Hugh. The two others were fine 
dashing girls, one nineteen, and the other a year or two 
younger. Unhappily for the children, their parents had 
early conceived a notion (similar to that entertained by 
Miles Blake) that the Common or Mixed Schools were 
much better calculated to promote the worldly prosperity 
of boys and girls than were the Catholic Schools. John 
Dillon was himself wholly illiterate, and being all his life 
painfully conscious of his deficiency, and sensiWe of the 
many disadvantages to which it gave rise, he was deter- 
mined to give his children a good education at any cost. 
Having once made up his mind on the inferiority of 
Catholic, or, as John was wont to say, “praying schools,” 
nothing could induce him to give the latter a trial. So 
Hugh began and finished his education in the Ward 
School where we first saw him, and his sisters served a 
similar apprenticeship to Miss Davison. The consequence 
was just what might be expected. At sixteen, Hugh 
Dillon stoutly protested against parental or any other 

authority ; at eighteen, he called his father “ a d d 

old Irishman ” to his very face ; and at twenty, cleared 
off one moonlight night with all the ready money he 
could find in the house, boasting to his companions how 


184 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


he had “done the governor brown” — in other words, left 
him penniless. It was not without many a struggle on 
the part of his parents that Hugh had fallen so very low. 
Often and often they had tried to reclaim him both by 
fair means and foul ; they had wept and prayed, scolded 
and threatened — nay, they had even “ brought Dr. Power 
to reason cases with him.” The good priest went, it is 
true, but with little hope of succeeding ; still he went, 
because he thought it his duty to go when asked ; and 
he talked to Hugh with that mild dignity and persuasive 
eloquence which had won back many a soul from the ways 
of vice and error ; and Hugh listened with apparent inte- 
rest, and told the priest “ that was what he called first- 
rate talk, and he guessed he’d think of it — some day 
that was all the satisfaction the Doctor could get from 
him, and with a heavy sigh he left the house, pitying the 
unfortunate parents of such a son, and saying in his own 
heart : “ pray heaven he may die a natural death !” 

That was Dr. Power’s last visit to Hugh Dillon, who 
ever after told as a capital joke how the priest had tried 
“ to come it over him, but was confoundedly bit — the 
cunning old fox !” Hugh’s education did not end with 
Mr. Simpson’s tuition ; it was continued in and around 
the engine-houses, where his evenings and, sometimes, 
nights were spent, from the age of fourteen to eighteen 
or twenty — that is, when he could not raise money to go 
to the theatre. The paternal mansion was rarely blest 
with the light of his countenance, and when he did go 
there it was by stealth, as his father had forbidden him 
the house since he had decamped with the money. Still, 
his poor heart-broken mother encouraged him to go once 
in a while, when she knew her husband was likely to be 
absent, still hoping “ against hope,” that he might yet be 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 185 

reclaimed “ when he had sown all Ids wild oats.” Alas I 
that time never came ; Hugh Dillon never sowed any 
other than “wild oats.” He lived and died “one of the 
b’hoys.” When about nineteen, he bound himself to a 
butcher, in Centre market, but very soon found out that 
be had no taste for such hard work. He left the butch- 
ering business to those who liked it^ better, and tried his 
hand for a while at stage-driving. This, too, was soon 
given up, for the fact was that Hugh could not confine 
himself to any regular employment. He grew every day 
more idle and dissipated. People began to wonder how 
he found money to spend ; but whether he had money or 
not he kept lounging around the taverns, and, in due 
time, became a confirmed “ loafer,” the meanest and most 
worthless of human beings. (Always excepting election 
days, when no man is worthless in the great Republic.) 

If Hugh Dillon bad ever possessed heart or soul — and 
Tim Flanagan always maintained that he had had origin- 
ally a fair share of both — they had evaporated, long years 
before his second encounter with Mike Sheridan. Reli- 
gion he had none, natural affection was dead within him, 
the word honor was meaningless for him, and he knew no 
other law than that of his own will. Boner’s tavern was 
one of his favorite haunts, as Boner was famous for keep- 
ing good liquor. 

Such had been the life of Hugh Dillon since we saw 
him at Mr. Simpson’s school, sneering at Harry Blake 
for his Irish and jpa^ist propensities. It w'as a pitiable 
life to contemplate, especially when taken in connection 
with Dillon’s personal appearance, for he was really a fine- 
looking young fellow, notwithstanding all the disadvan- 
tages of his condition. Well might his parents bewail 
their early imprudence. And they did bewail it in sor- 


186 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


row and in sliame ; but grief and remorse were alike 
unavailing ; neither could bring back the past, nor arrest 
the headlong career of ruin which their own blindness had 
first marked out. The daughters of the family were just 
one step above their brother — no more. Dress was their 
hobby ; and before that grand idol all minor objects had 
to give way. Still they professed a sort of subjection to 
their parents, depending, of course, on certain conditions, 
such as the being allowed to “dress as fine” as they 
wished, to go to the theatre once in a while, to attend all 
the public balls, to subscribe to a circulating library, to- 
gether with various other little matters too numerous to 
mention. These conditions all fulfilled (in other words, 
they having their own way), the two Miss Dillons were 
said to be “ not so bad — considering the sort of a brother 
they had.” Poor brother and poor sisters ! 

When Hugh begau to recover his consciousness, sus- 
pended for a while by Mike’s well-timed blow, he found 
himself with his head lying against a lamp-post, and his 
first sensation was somewhat similar to that of the un- 
lucky “ little woman” who “ went to the market to sell 
her eggs,” and who got into bloomers while she slept, 
through the malicious agency of the pedlar, “ whose name 
was Stout.” 


“ Goodness mercy on me ! sure this is none of 1 1” 


By degrees he arrived at the conclusion that it was 
himself — Hugh Dillon, — and no other, who lay there in 
his own proper person ; then came the question — 

“ If this be I, as I suppose it be, 

How did I get here ?” !Now, it was nothing new for 


-AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. 187 

poor Hugh to find himself in similar circumstances, but 
be wanted to know who reduced him to such a strait on 
the present occasion, and when memory began to resume 
her functions, came with it the vision of Mike Sheridan, 
stick in hand, raising his arm to deal the blow. Nerved 
^ to sudden strength by the recollection, Dillon raised him- 
self up, clenched his teeth, ditto his fist, and looked 
around to see whether Mike was within striking dis- 
tance. But no — no — all was silent around — neither Mike 
Sheridan nor any one else was to be seen, and tlie cold 
night-breeze sent a chill to the wretched heart of that 
houseless, homeless man. 

“ Where can they have gone to V’ he asked himself 
over and over again, thinking of his trusty comrades,' 
“ I guess they’re minding number one !” 

He was making the best of his way back to Boner’s, 
when Jim darted out of a neighboring alley, accosting 
him with : “ Hillo, Dillon I is that you ? I thought yon 
were a dead man !” 

If I’m not, I needn’t thank you I” responded Dillon. 
“ I might have been for all you cared — you, looked after 
number one I” 

“ Now that’s what I call real mean of you, Dillon ! — 
do you know that Fve got my arm broken — and it was 
all along your quarrel. I had nothing to do with it. 
See there I” and he pointed to the arm which hung mo- 
tionless by his side. 

'‘Well, it can’t be helped I” replied Dillon, coolly. 
“ Where’s that blubbering feller, Bill ? Hillo ! here he 
comes I I guess his arm ain’t broken I He ’most always 
gets it on the other end of him I” 

Sure enough, Bill came up rubbing and bemoaning the 
very part indicated by Dillon, whereupon the latter 


]88 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


burst into a loud laugh, saying : “ I told you so, Jim — 
didn’t I ? — who kicked you, Bill V’ 

Bill only replied by a sullen grunt, and an affectionate 
consignment of the querist to the land of “ blazes.” Jim 
was in little better humor, so that Dillou found it expe- 
dient to lay a sticking-plaster on their mental wounds. 

“ Come, come, now — don’t be so savage on my hands I 
— let’s go back into Boner’s, and you’ll see if I don’t 
warm your hearts with some of his number o-ne. Tliat’s 
the stuff for broken down courage ! — eh, lads, — ain’t it?”, 

“ I guess it won’t heal my arm !” growled Jim — “ it 
will take a doctor and some close confinement to do that 
— curse the feller, if ever I get my eye on him again, I’ll 
do for him — I will, by !” 

“ All right, old feller I” responded Dillon, as they 
gained the door. “ It will go hard with two of us, if we 
don’t give him his oats ! We owe him, let me see, a 
broken head, ditto an arm, together with an unmannerly 
application of his boot-toe to the rear of Bill’s premises ; 
well, never mind, that’s twice he floored me ; I’ll come at 
him for the whole round sum when he least expects it !” 

“But it wasn’t the young man that I had to do with,” 
said Bill, sullenly ; “it was the old feller himself. I’ll 
be hanged if he hasn’t the strength of two men in him ! 
That leg of his must be something harder than flesh ; 
I’m bound to say, I’ll not forget it in haste !” and he 
again rubbed the afiSicted part, to the great amusement 
of Dillon, at least, for Jim was in no humor of laughing. 
His friend Boner sent for a doctor to set his broken 
limb, and in his hands we leave him. Well content are 
we to get back to “ other men and other scenes.” And 
yet the course of our narrative brings us but one step 
higher in the moral order. 


THE UNDUTIF DL SON. 


189 


It was the morning after the merry meeting at Tim 
Flanagan’s. Miles Blake and his wife were seated at the 
breakfast table. They had sent more than once to 
apprise the young people that breakfast was ready. 
Miles was in no very good humor, and told his wife not 
to bother herself any more about them — “ my heart’s 
broken with them,” said he, “ that’s what it is. They 
have no more respect for either of us, Mary, than if we 
were the dirt off their feet. Did you ever hear anything 
like the impudence that Henry gave me last night ?” 

Eliza coming in at the moment prevented her mother 
from making any reply. ” “ What in the name of good- 
ness kept you so late ?” said Mrs. Blake. “ It’s a shame , 
for young people like you and Henry to have their- 
father and mother waiting for them at the breakfast 
table I Is your brother coming down, or what is he 
about ?” 

“Why, I thought you knew that he wasn’t going to 
breakfast here !” 

“ No, indeed, I knew no such thing. Where else 
would he breakfast ? Hush ! here he comes !” 

But Henry T. Blake was not going there ; he had no 
intention of joining the little family-circle on that par- 
ticular morning. Passing on through the hall, and turn- 
ing neither to the right hand nor the left, he deliberately 
put on his hat and sallied forth, no one knew whither, 
except himself, and, perhaps, Eliza. In a note, which 
was just handed to Mrs. Blake, the dutiful son “ declared 
his intention” with a vengeance. The note read as 
follows : — . 

“ My Deak Motheb ; — As ray father thought proper to favor 
me last evening with an intiraation that my ways were not alto- 
gether pleasing to him, at the same time threatening to turn me 


190 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


out of doors, or something to that effect, I hereby beg to apprise 
you and him, with all due respect, that I would much rather per- 
form that office myself than have him or any one else do it for me. 
Wishing you both a good appetite for your breakfast, although I 
cannot partake of it without forfeiting my own self-respect, 

I remain, my dear mother. 

Your affectionate son, 

Henry T. Blake.” 

At first, this note was regarded by both parents as a 
practical joke, notwithstanding Eliza’s assurance that it 
was no such thing ; but, on inquiring of the servants, it 
was found that Henry had actually sent off his trunks 
very early in the morning. This was doleful news for 
the father and mother. Mrs. Blake fell back, pale as 
death, in her chair, and her husband had to rise and 
walk to the window, in order to conceal his emotion. 
Eliza looked from one to the other ; she thought of 
their long years of devotion and aifection, and tender 
care ; of the many sacrifices which they had made for 
Henry and herself ; she remembered the brilliant visions 
in which she had so often heard both parents indulge 
when talking of their children’s future, and now she saw 
them spiritless and heart-broken, outraged in their ten- 
derest affections. It is true, she still sympathized with 
Henry, but she could not look on such a scene as this 
without a pang of sorrow, perhaps remorse. 

Going round the table to where her mother sat, she 
put her arm round her neck, and begged of her to be 
composed. 

“ Come to your breakfast, pa, dear !” said she, “ it 
will /be quite cold; ma, do not take on so. I’m sure 
Henry will be back soon. I guess he will soon tire of 
boarding out, and you shall see him coming home a true 
penitent some of these days.” 


THE UNDUTIFUL SON. 


191 


Miles shook his head, but resumed his place at the 
table. His wife dried her eyes, and prepared to pour 
out the coffee. Eliza’s kindness was the best consolation 
that either could have had at the moment, and their 
gratitude to her was so touchingly manifest, that Eliza 
could scarcely restrain her tears. It seemed to her then 
that nothing could ever again induce her to be ashamed 
of her parents, or to treat them with disrespect. Whe- 
ther she kept her good resolution remains to be seen. 
But, lest the rea,der should be too sanguine on that point, 
be it remembered that a certain place, which we do not 
choose to name, is “paved with good resolutions.” Sin- 
gular paving-stones for such a place ! 

In the course of that afternoon, Henry Blake met 
Zachary Thomson, by appointment, for the transaction 
of some important business. “ Before entering on the 
matter in hand,” said Blake, “ let me inform you that 
I have changed quarters this morning. The old man 
spoke to me in such a way last evening that I could 
no longer put up with it ; and, to tell the truth, I feel 
much better pleased to be away from the old couple ; 
their surveillance was, at times, scarcely to be tole- 
rated.” 

“ At all events, changes are pleasant now and then,” 
said Zachary, “ but where have you moved to ?” 

“ For the present you will find me at Mrs. Delmaine’s 
boarding-house.” 

“ But what of Eliza ?” 

“ Oh I Eliza’s all right ; she’s in full possession at 
home. She can, somehow, submit to what I could not — 
or would not if I could I Eliza’s your look-out, let others 
do as they may I” 

‘‘ Well, I suppose I needn’t attempt to deny it,” 


192 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


replied Zachary, with a smile, “ better her than Jane 
Pearson — eh, Henry V’ 

“Nonsense I you always get on to that subject, start 
wliere we may. But what about the other affair V’ 

“ Oh ! that’s all settled. The Lodge meets to-night, 
and I’ll introduce you. 1 proposed you at the last meet- 
ing, and you are to be admitted this evening. I suppose 
you hardly thought it necessary to acquaint jour gov- 
ernor with your intentions 

“ Hold on there, Zachary I” cried Blake, laughing ; 
“ I object to one of your terms ; Mr. Miles Blake is no 
more my governor than he is yours. 1 shook the dust 
of slavery from off my feet this morning, and stand before 
you a free man.” 

“ But what of Dr. Power ?” laughed Zachary. “ You 
have often told me that your church is opposed to secret 
societies V’ 

“ Oh I as to that, Dr. Power never consults me in his 
affairs, nor will I go out of my way to consult hhn. 
You have proved to my satisfaction that it is a great 
advantage for a lawyer to be ,a Freemason, and as I 
mean to attain a high place in the profession, if I possi- 
bly can, I will leave no means untried. If joining your 
honorable order may serve as a step, I am right willing 
to do it. At what hour do you assemble V’ 

“About eight, or half-past eight.. Shall I call for you 1” 

“ If you please — you will find' me ready.” 

At eight o’clock, punctual to his appointment^ came 
Zachary Thomson, and as the two friends walked arm-in- 
arm to the house where the Lodge assembled, Henry 
said, all of a sudden : 

''Apropos to what we were just snying ; did you hear 
what befell that wild cousin of mine, Mike Sheridan ?” 


THE FREEMASONS. 


193 


i No, what was it ? — nothing bad I hope, for I confess 
I I have a sort of liking for Mike ; he’s a good-hearted 
i fellow as ever lived.” 

j “ Oh, of course I” said Henry laughing ; “ good nature 
is, I believe, a characteristic of the class to which he 
I belongs ; Mike is of the genus Paddy — as thoroughly 
I Irish as if he had fed on potatoes all his life, and made 
his daily ablutions in holy water.” 

“Well, but you have not told me what happened to 
him ; I am really anxious to hear.” 

Henry proceeded to relate the occurrence, ending with : 
“ I cannot tell how true it may be ; I’ve not had time to 
inquire ; 

‘ I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.* 

! “ That Dillon is a great scamp I” said Zachary, with 

I honest indignation. “ There’s scarcely a week goes over 
* my head that I don’t hear of him in some disgraceful 
brawl ; he’s a hard case, take my Word for it. As for 
; Mike, he’s a brave fellow, and I honor him — I do so. 
i But' here we are I — now, make up your mind, my good 
! friend, for a solemn scene. In a few minutes you must 

' stand before that venerable body, Lodge No. , and 

; ask to be admitted a member of that time-honored order, 

> whose power is felt throughout the earth, and makes thrones 
: and empires tremble at will. Are you still resolved ?” 

I “ Quite so — why do you doubt it ?” 

“ I donH doubt it — come along, my friend — my brother 
! that is to be ! You are about to- take an important step, 

1 but I have taken it before you I” 

j After an hour or so spent in Lodge No. , our two 

1 friends sallied forth once more, and turned their faces 
' towards Zachary’s home. How do you feel now ?” was 
^ Zachary’s- question, half laughing, and half serious. 

' 9 


94 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Perfectly satisfied,” was the response, “ and much 
encouraged.” 

“ Don’t you feel as if you had got a staff to lean on ? — 
that’s just how I felt after being admitted.” 

“ Well, I can’t say I feel such a perceptible support as 
yet,” replied Henry, laughing ; “ whatever I may do 
hereafter. I feel, however, that I have crossed the Rubi- ' 
con, declared myself a free man, as far as the priests are 
concerned, and secured for myself the sworn assistance of 
a very numerous and powerful body I If that be your 
staff, then it is also mine.” 

“ I am happy to hear it. Come in now and have some ■ 
supper. Father will be rejoiced to hear of your joining 
the order.” j 

“ Why, do you mean to say that your father is a Free- 
mason ?” 

“ Yes, I do ; I thought I had told you so before. 
Father has been a Freemason, now going on, let me see, 
five-and-twenty years. It was he that made rne join, for 
be always says that he attributes his own success in busi- 
ness, in a great measure, to his being a Freemason, and 
he was quite sure it would be most beneficial to me in my 
profession.” 

“Ah !” sighed Blake, “ there is the advantage of having 
an enlightened, educated man for a father ; I can almost 
envy you.” 

Just then the door was opened, and seeing them safely 
housed, we leave them for the present. 


A MARRIAGE. 


195 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MARRIAGE AND THE PROSPECT OF ANOTHER. 

Very soon after Henry’s becoming a Freemason, his 
father was surprised one evening by a visit from Mr. 
Pearson, the father of onr fair friend, Jane. After some 
preliminary conversation, the visitor inquired whether 
Henry had apprised the elders of his house of certain 
1 matrimonial intentions entertained by him. 

I “ No !” said Miles — “ not that I know of, though he 
, was here awhile yesterday evening ? Mary, did he say 
anything of it to you ?” 

“Not a word. Miles — not a single word !” 

“Well I that is rather strange I” observed Mr. Pear- 
V son ; “ however, the omission is of little consequence, for 
; I can myself ascertain your sentiments. Your son, Mr. 
' Blake ! has been for some time past paying attention to 
: my daughter, as you are probably aware.” 

“ Yes, I thought he had a sort of liking for her,” said 
• Miles coolly. “And so he wants to marry her ?” 

“ Precisely ; he made a formal declaration this fore- 
’ noon, and as my daughter seems to have no objection, I 
t just called to have your opinion before matters are 
brought to a close.” 


196 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

Miles looked at his wife, and she looked at him. Nei* 
ther seemed to know very well what they ought to say, 
for, to tell the truth, both were completely stunned ; but 
Eliza came to the rescue with — 

“ Pa and ma are so overpowered by their feelings at 
this moment, Mr. Pearson, that you must leave them 
time to arrange their thoughts in speaking order. Ill 
answer for them that they have no objection to the match, 
but are, on the contrary, perfectly satisfied. So I told 
Henry when he consulted me on the subject. Indeed, he 
was already aware of the fact. We both knew that pa 
and ma entertained the very highest respect for your 
family, and would be but too happy to have dear Jane 
for a daughter.” Eliza here told part of the truth — not 
the whole— she took good care to suppress the contemp- 
tuous manner in which her brother had spoken of the 
parental judgment. 

“ That is all true enough,” said the father, “ but I 
think Henry might have spoken to %is on the subject. If 
this be the fiishionable way of making matches, it is very 
different from ours. We used to consult the parents on 
hoth sides, and ask their consent in the first place. But 
then we w'ere brought up in a different world altogether. 
With us, children were children as long as their parents 
lived, and never dreamed of taking any important step 
without asking their advice.” 

“ Precisely, Mr. Blake ! that was the order of things 
in old times — at least in the Old World, but this is the 
Kew World, my good sir I and independence is the glory 
of our age. You must not think of finding fault with 
your son for asserting the dignity of manhood, since he is 
come to the full years of maturity. I have no doubt he 
respects you and your good lady quite as much as most 


1 


A MARRIAGE. 


19 


young men respect their seniors no\v-a-days. Am I ti 
undcrstiJiid that you give your consent 

“ What need is there for asking my consent, JNIr. Pear- 
son, when Henry Blake is liis own master, as you say? 
If he came to ask me himself I’d give liim his answer, but 
I don’t choose to give it unless he does. Not that I 
want to make little of your daughter, sir, for slie’s good 
enough for any man in New York city, but I want my 
son to come liere himself and ask our consent, or else 
not to be making fools of us by sending you, or any one 
else.” 

“ Is that your answer, jMr. Blake ?” 

“ It is, Mr. Pearson — and another thing, I can sce fur^ 
ther info the millstone than they that pidz it. Tell Henry 
that from me.” 

“ I can’t say that I understand your message,” said 
Pearson, in a rather contemptuous tone. 

“I didn't expect you would,” was' the reply, “for its a 
saying we have in the old country. I suppose Henry 
woji’t understand it either, but tell it to him at any r.ate.” 

Mr. Pearson bowed stiffly to the ladies, still more stiffly 
to Miles, and then left the house. 

“ Didn’t I take it very coolly ?” said Miles, turning to 
his wife. “ They want to get some of our hard earning, 
or they wouldn’t trouble us at all — that’s as plain as a 
pike-staff.” 

“ God help us anyhow !” said the poor mother ; “ it’s 
little comfort we have in the same boy ! — but maybe he’ll 
come himself now to tell us.” 

“I don’t care a farthing whether he does or not,” re- 
torted Miles ; “I’m done with him !” Miles spoke very 
stoutly, but his heart was not as stout as his words ; his 
voice trembled, and his ruddy countenance changed color 


198 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


more than once, for he did love Henry dearly, and was 
proud of him, with all his faults. But it wrung his heart 
to see him so cold and so disrespectful towards himself 
and Mary after all they had done for him. 

Eliza would fain have softened matters down, but her 
father cut her very short with, “There’s no use in talking, 
Eliza — your mother and myself can see how matters 
stand as well as any one else, though we’re not so well 
informed as you or Henry. Some of these days, I sup- 
pose, you’ll be doing the same, as soon as you get the 
chance.” Eliza blushed like scarlet, then the tears came 
into her eyes, and she took out her handkerchief, partly 
to wipe them away, partly to conceal her embarrassment. 

Mrs. Blake looked reproachfully at her husband. 
“There, now. Miles, that’s always the way with you. 
You’re angry with Henry — and I don’t blame you for it 
— but I’m sure you mightn’t speak so harshly to poor 
Eliza. She’s not in fault, and you know that as well as 
I do ? It’s a shame for you. Miles. I declare it is !” 

Miles himself was very sorry for what he had said. 
Going over to Eliza, he laid his hand on her head, saying, 
“ Don’t cry, Lizzy ! (when he was in very good humor he 
always called her Lizzy), don’t cry ! you know my way, 
and how easy it is to ruffle my temper — but, then, Harry’s 
ingratitude should not make me cross with you. Dry up 
your tears, Lizzy, dear — that’s a good girl, and I’ll not 
say another word about Henry — if I can help it !” 

“Weill it was, really, too bad,” sobbed Eliza, “to 
speak to me so, without any fault of mine, though I know 
you had somt reason to blame Henry” — but she still kept 
the handkerchief to her face. 

“ Come, come, Eliza, let us have no more about it,” 
said her father — “ you needn’t take on so very bad. I 


A MARRI AGE 


199 


told you I was sorry for what I said — what more would 
you have V’ 

“Oh ! nothing, pa — nothing more, I assure you, but 
my feelings are so easily touched, my sensibility is so very 
acute, that I cannot heal the wound all at once. Allow 
me to retire for a little while.” 

“ There she goes, now,” said Miles, when left alone 
with his wife ; “ there she goes in high dudgeon because 
her father ventured to say a word that she didn’t like. 
You’d think I was the greatest tyrant in creation. Now, , 
mark ray words, Mary Blake ! that girl is not a bit 
better than Henry, if the truth were known ; she just 
thinks as little of us as he does, only she’s naturally more 
gentle, and wants to keep a smooth face on the matter. 

It’s little comfort we’ll ever have in our children. I see 
that plain enough I” 

“ Oh ! Miles, dear I don’t be so down hearted,” said 
his wife, soothingly ; “ it’s an old saying and a true one, 
that sorrow is time enough when it comes. Things may turn 
out better than we expect.” 

Miles shook his head despondingly, as he proceeded to 
search for a book he *had been reading. “Did you see 
that book that Edward Flanagan lent me — the Life of 
Lord Edward Fitzgerald ?” 

“ It’s on the table in the next room there.” Miles 
went to fetch the book, and his wife heard him sigh 
heavily. “God help you, poor man I” said she to her- 
self, as she resumed her sewing ; “ it’s little heart you 
have for reading, only you want to bother grief, if you 
can.” 

Whether Blake’s hint was fully understood by his son, 
or that the young gentleman began to think it might 
look better to consult “ the old man,” he made his appear- 


200 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


ance in the paternal mansion on the following evening. 
Eliza contrived to give him an admonitory pinch on the 
arm as she met him at the parlor door, glancing at the 
same time towards their father, as much as to say : “You 
must manage him carefully, or things won’t go well.” To 
which Harry responded by a slight inclination of the 
head. 

Miles’s surmise regarding the money was perfectly cor- 
rect. Henry T. Blake knew right well that he could not 
make such a figure as he would wish to make, without 
some of his father’s “ hard cash even Mr. Pearson had 
made this suggestion in the most delicate manner possible, 
telling the enamored aspirant for his daughter’s hand : 

“ Love is all very well — so is law, in its own time and 
place, but depend upon it, Henry, there’s nothing like 
money, especially when a young man is about to enter the ^ 
temple of Hymen. Money is wanting at the outset, and 
money must be had, in order to give you a fair start, and 
secure to Jane what she has hitherto had — the means of 
making a respectable appearance in society. Go to the 
old man, then, and rub him down smoothly. He’s Irish, 
you know, and won’t do with common applications. Give 
him a touch of the blarney, Henry — that will soften his 
heart !” 

Acting on this politic advice, Henry was much more 
respectful in his demeanor, on the present occasion, than 
his parents had seen him for years before. Still he did 
not broach the subject nearest to his heart, until he had 
prepared the way by an hour’s good conduct. Many a 
significant glance had passed between him and Eliza, in- 
dicating a joint course of observation in feeling the 
parental pulse, as it were, and it was not till Miles had 
actually come to the 'laughing point, and his wife’s face 


A MARRIAGE. 


^01 

looked blithe and cheerful as in former days, that Henry 
ventured to “ declare his intentions.” 

I’ve been thinking of getting married, father,” said 
he, and then he stopped. 

“ So I hear,” said his father, drily. “ Didn’t you send 
Mr. Pearson to tell us ? — Why didn’t you let us know- 
before now ?” 

“Oh I because I was waiting to have the matter defi- 
nitively settled before I troubled you 1” 

“ Your mother and myself are entirely obliged to you, 
Mr. Henry!” said his father with much gravity; “it 
was very kind of you to save us the trouble of tlnriking 
or speaking on a subject of such importance ! You 
acted like a dutiful and loving son, and we’ll not forget 
your good conduct in haste. Eh, Mary, what do you 
say ?” 

“ Well, to tell the truth, I was a little hurt at first, 
but then I got over it soon,” replied Mrs. Blake, with a 
smile of doubtful meaning ; “ I began to think that 
Henry wasn’t so much to blame after all, for how could a 
simple old couple like you and me Miles, have anything 
to do with choosing a wife for such a son as ours ? The 
Flanagans or the like of them act differently in 

such a case, but then they belong to a different set. Our 
Henry couldn’t be expected to imitate such old-fashioned 
Irish people.” 

Henry bit his lip till it was well-nigh colorless. He 
was evidently struggling to keep in his anger, and eventu- 
ally succeeded in putting down the evil spirit, with the 
hope of being soon able to “ pay them off* for their iibes,” 
as he said to himself. His forbearance told well on both 
father and mother, and was placed to his credit on 
Miles’s mental leger, over against a considerable sum in 
9 * 


202 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


good bank-stock. Half an hour’s conversation brought 
the matter to a satisfactory footing. Indeed, there was 
hardly an obstacle to he surmounted, if we except the 
trifling one of religion ; and that, when raised by Mrs. 
Blake, was promptly met by Henry’s assurance that Jane 
was not at all particular about religion — in fact, she 
would almost as soon go to the Roman Catholic Church 
as any other. He had not, he said, the smallest doubt 
but she would become a Catholic as soon as they were 
married. This made all smooth, as smooth as could be, 
and when Henry rose to take his leave, he was in such 
excellent humor, that he actually promised to dine at home 
next day. Moreover, he graciously invited his mother and 
sister to go with Jane, in the forenoon, on a shopping 
excursion. This last move was the finishing-stroke of 
Henry’s clever tactics. It was the ‘‘ real touch of the 
Blarney,” and did more to conciliate Miles and his wife 
than all the well-managed policy of the evening. It is 
needless to say that his mother willingly consented. 

When Henry reached the outer door, he found that he 
had left his gloves on the table in the sitting-room, and 
called to Eliza to bring them. This Eliza could not do, 
but she brought herself, which was much more to Hen- 
ry’s purpose, for the gloves were in his pocket. What 
he said to her in a whisper nobody heard but herself, but 
he certainly said something, amounting in all to about 
half a dozen w’ords. Whatever it was, Eliza nodded 
assent, and then hastened back to the sitting-room. 

Mrs. Blake, before she retired for the night, held a 
consultation with her daughter on what they were to 
wear next day. 

“ You can wear that new lilac muslin,” said she, “ it is 
so very pretty and so becoming to you, and I’ll wear my 


A MARRIAGE. 


203 


brown satin. I think it’s the most suitable for a woman 
of age ; don’t you, Eliza ?” 

‘‘ Yes, ma ; I quite agree with you — the brown satin 
is the yery thing.” Eliza spoke quite seriously ; but 
there was a smile curling her pretty lip, and a twinkle in 
her soft blue eyes, that her mother never noticed. How 
could she — poor simple woman, — speaking in all good 
faith herself ; she never dreamed of any lurking satire 
in her daughter’s words. 

Unfortunately, the browm satin was not taken from 
its station in the wardrobe all next day. When the time 
came, or rather a little before it, Eliza was afflicted with 
a violent toothache, so violent, indeed, that her mother 
would have persuaded her to go to a dentist, but Eliza 
had a nervous horror of dentists ; the very thought of 
their instruments was enough for her. So she contented 
herself with rubbing some camphor on the cheek without 
— ditto the gum within^ and then lay down to take a 
sleep, “ if sleep she could.” She had great hopes, and so 
had her mother, that the camphor and the heat of the 
pillow would prove effectual. Eliza’s greatest trouble 
was the necessity of disappointing “ poor Jane.” She 
tried to persuade her mother to go without her, but her 
mother vvould not hear of such a thing. 

“ Well, what will you say, ma, if Jane sends for us ?” 

“ Say I why. I’ll tell the truth, to be sure. There’s 
no other excuse wanted.” 

Accordingly, w'hen Jane did send, Mrs. Blake told the 
messenger that she was very sorry to disappoint Miss 
Pearson, but her daughter had a dreadful toothache, and 
she couldn’t leave her.' That settled the shopping excur- 
sion, and I am happy to say that Eliza’s toothache w'as 
not of long duration. When evening came it was almost 


204 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


quite gone, so that Eliza was able to play and sing some 
for her father and mother, to their great delight and 
entertainment. Mr. and Mrs. Blake began to think that 
there was a great deal of truth in the old proverb, “ AlVs 
not lost that’s in danger^ Fears and misgivings were 
flung to the winds. 


“ And they dream’d of bright days to come.” 

While this marriage was on the tapis, Mrs. Blake was 
one day surprised by a visit from Dr. Power, whose visits 
had latterly been like those of angels, “few and far 
between.” He had heard of the proposed alliance, and 
came to ascertain how matters really stood. Mrs. Blake 
assured him, with no little exultation, that it was “ true 
enough that Henry was going to be married to Miss 
Pearson.” 

“ And with your consent ?” 

“ Certainly, Father Power. The match is, in every 
respect, pleasing to Miles and me ; for the only objection 
we could have was about religion, and my son tells us 
that Jane cares nothing at all about religion. She’d as 
soon be a Catholic as anything else.” 

“ So much the worse,” observed Dr. Power, gravely. 

“Why, Lt)rd bless me. Father Power, I don’t know 
what you mean. Sure, isn’t that all we want ?” 

“My dear Mrs. Blake, you are quite mistaken,” 
replied the doctor. “ I have little hope of a person who 
“ cares nothing about religion. Such persons are rarely, 
if ever converted. A man or woman who is really 
attached to any system of religio^ may be supposed to 
have a certain fixed idea of saving his or her soul ; and, 
if once convinced that salvation cannot be found beyond 


r 


A MARRIAGE. 205 

the pale of a certain Church, will gladly embrace the 
truth when it is once presented to them, and become 
obedient children of that Church, — but for tlie indifferent 
there is no hope. Yon tell me your son has great hopes 
of his intended wife becoming a Catholic : let him take 
care that he himself does not become a Protestant — or, 
if not that, something worse.’’ 

“ Lord save us. Father Power ! you’re enough to 
frighten the life in one. I wish you’d just tell Henry 
what you’re after telling me.” 

“ I should be very willing to do so, my dear Mrs. 
Blake, but I have had so many opportunities, one way 
' and another, of sounding your son's disposition, that I 
have not the smallest hope of making any impression on 
his mind. Could not you or his father hold out against 
the match? And yet,” he added, thoughtfully, ‘^and 
yet, that is a poor resource. Darkness overshadows the 
land, and gross darkness the people.” This last was said 
internally. ‘After a moment’s thought, he said to Mrs. 
Blake : “ So you and your husband have both given 
your consent ?” 

“Well, yes, your reverence” — she hesitated, awed, she 
could not tell why, by Dr. Power’s maimer. 

“ In that case you cannot well retract, so I have only 
to wish you a good morning. When sorrow comes, as 
come it will, you know where to find me. If I could do 
you any good by coming to see you, I would come often ; 
but, unfortunately, I cannot. Good morning.” He was 
gone before Mrs. Blake could think of what to say. 

When Miles c^lme home, his wife told him of Dr. Pow- 
er’s visit, but Miles only langlied. “ What fools we are !” 
said he ; “ he thinks to frighten us with his prophecies, 
but it won’t do. We’re too old to be caught with chaff. 


206 


BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 


He's mad because he wasn’t consulted. There’s no use 
telling Henry anything about it ; for, of course, he 
couldn’t go back of his word now, even if he wished it.” 

Mrs. Blake was fain to obey, though her reason, and 
what religion she had, were both in open rebellion ; but 
she resolutely put them down, and went on her way as 
quietly, though, perhaps, not as comfortably, as if Dr. 
power had never spoken to her on the subject. 

Three weeks more, and Henry “led Miss Jane Pearson 
to the altar,” as the fashionable journals would say ; that 
is, to the altar of the world, represented by the com- 
munion-table in her own meeting-house. They next pro- 
ceeded to the residence of Dr. Power, where a similar 
ceremony was duly performed. Grave, and even sad, was 
the face of the good priest, for he knew that the marriage 
was not “ made in Heaven,” and his far-seeing eye could 
already detect the dark clouds of sin and sorrow gather- 
ing over the devoted heads of those whom he was made 
the unwilling instrument in bringing together. So pretty 
Jane Pearson became Mrs. Henry Blake, and the joy of 
parents and friends was exceedingly great. Miles Blake 
testified his joy and approbation by a cheque on the 
United States Bank for five thousand dollars, a favor 
which the bride and bridegroom graciously acknowledged, 
and, no doubt, duly appreciated. Eliza Blake was first 
bridesmaid, and immediately after the ceremony, the 
happy pair set out for Saratoga, taking Eliza with them 
The whole party, including Miles Blake and his wife, had 
breakfasted at Mr. Pearson’s, but it is needless to say, 
that neither the Flanagans “ nor any of that set ” were 
invited. In fact, the whole thing was kept quite a secret 
as far as Henry’s “ Irish” friends were concerned. Not 
that the latter were at all in the dark as to what was 


A MARRIAGE. 


20^ 


going on, but, of course, their knowledge came to them 
by indirect channels ; they were none of them favored 
with an official announcement. Perhaps we should ex- 
cept a flying visit from Mrs. Blake a few days before the 
wedding. She was on her way to make some purchases, 
and “just ran in,” she said, “ to tell them a secret.” To 
her great surprise she found that the secret was wo secret, 
although none of them would tell how they heard it. 

“ I suppose it was them tattling girls that I have ; we 
can’t turn in our skin for them.” 

“Never mind, Mary,” replied her brother ; “it doesn’t 
give us much concern. If God spares us we’ll have a 
wedding of our own before long, if it was only to spite 
you and Miles. We’ll make your teeth water, depend 
upon it.” 

“ You don’t say so, Tim ?” inquired Mrs. Blake earn- 
estly. 

“Yes, but I do say so I” returned Tim, gravely. 

“ Ah ! then, never mind him, Mary,” said Mrs. Flanagan, 
wdth her quiet smile, “ the man’s only making fun of you.” 

“Well, but I did hear something about that Margaret 
O’Callaghan,” observed Mrs. Blake, “ and I’ve met 
Edward walking with her sometimes. She’s a nice-look- 
ing girl, and I suppose she’ll have a little money to get. 
They say the old man has something by him !” 

“ Something by him !” repeated Tim, drily ; “ I rather 
think he has ; maybe as much as your Mr. Pearson, 
high as he holds his head.” 

“ Oh I nonsense, Tim, you know very well that couldn’t 
be possible. But I’m sure I hope Edward will get some- 
thing handsome with the girl, if it comes to a match. A 
couple of thousand dollars would give you a lift in your 
business.” 


208 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ True for you Mary I” returned Tim, with a sly glance 
at his wife. “But mind I didn’t say that Edward was 
going to be married, or that Miss O’Callaghau was his 
intended. I only told you that we’d try to get a wedding 
for ourselves. How do you know but it is Susan there 
that we’ll make up a match for : there’s Mr. Fitzgibbon, 
the schoolmaster, has a great eye after her.” 

“No, I won’t have him,” cried Susan, with a pouting 
lip ; “ he didn’t bring me that candy he promised me, 
and I don’t like him. I like Father Power a great deal 
better, for he always gives us nice pictures. I’ll not 
have Mr. Fitzgibbon.” 

Every one laughed at Susan’s childlike declaration, and 
Mrs. Blake suddenly remembered that she was staying 
too long. When she was gone, Mrs. Flanagan asked her 
husband why he had so thoughtlessly hinted at the pos- 
sibility of Edward’s marriage. “ You know it isn’t quite 
settled,” said she, “ and there’s no use setting rumors 
afloat till we’re sure the thing will take place.” 

“ But I know it will take place,” said Tim, positively ; 
“ Don’t we know very well that O’Callaghan wants to 
bring it about, and that Margaret likes Edward as well 
as he likes her. And, then, as for ourselves, I’m sure 
weHl have no objection ?” 

“ Well I at any rate, the affair is not settled, as I said 
before, until you and Edward have talked it over with Dr. 
Power, as you mean to do this evening. Tlien let us all 
make up our minds that it is to be a match, but I wouldn’t 
be making a blowing-horn of it till you see your way 
straight before you.” 

Evening being come, and supper over, Tim got up and 
took his hat. Edward followed his example, but, some- 
how, he was in no hurry to move. He looked back at 


A marriage. 


209 


his raotlier, and saw, or thought he saw, a tear in lier eye. 
Going back quickly to where she stood, he took hold of lier 
hand and squeezed it hard, hard. “I know what you're 
thinking, mother dear, but never fear, with God’s help, 
you shall lose nothing by this change in my condition. 
Even if I do become a husband, I shall be none the less 
your son. No mortal can ever take your place in my 
heart. Pray for me, my dear mother, that I may worthily 
discharge the duties of whatever state I may embrace.” 

These words produced an elfect contrary to Edward’s 
expectations, for his mother cried all the more, and sat 
down in a corner with her apron to her eyes. Her tears, 
however, were not tears of sorrow ; they flowed from the 
mother’s heart at the thoughts of even partially losing 
the companionship of a dear and most dutiful son — a sou 
who had for so many long years been the comfort of her 
life and the pride of her heart. But still there was no 
bitterness in what she felt, for she knew Edward’s words 
were true, and that she could rely on his affectionate sense 
of duty. The wife, too, whom he was about to take, was 
her own choice as well as his. As for Tim, though he 
had heard every word of what his son said, he pretended 
not to have heard it. After a moment’s delay, during 
which he, too, had been swallowing down certain choking 
sensations which came upon him, he called out from the 
hall-door, where he stood holding the handle ; “ I’m blest 
and happy, Edward, but it’s trying my patience you are ; 
what on earth is keeping you ? why, if you’re as dilatory 
as this on the wedding-day, Margaret will be apt to com- 
plain ! Out with you here, or I protest I’ll go off with- 
out you.” 

Edward came out laughing good humoredly, and they 
both left the house together. Just^as they reached Dr. 


210 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Power^s door, they saw a woman coming out, crying as 
though her heart would break. She was thinly and 
scantily clad, and yet there was that about her which told 
of better days. The light of a neighboring lamp fell full 
on her wasted features, under the shade of an old straw 
bonnet, and Tim Flanagan knew her at a glance — it was 
Mrs. Dillon, the mother of our worthy acquaintance, 
Hugh. 

“ Why, Mrs. Dillon, can this be you ?” said Tim as he 
met her face to face on the steps. “ What’s the matter 
with you, my poor woman ?” 

Mrs. Dillon started when she heard her name so 
unexpectedly pronounced. She raised her heavy, tear- 
ful eyes to the speaker’s face, and, recognizing him at 
once, she held out her hand. 

“ Oh I Mr. Flanagan, dear, is it here I have you ? — 
what’s the matter with me, is it ? Oh ! indeed, indeed, 
there’s a load of trouble on my heart this night. Sure 
that poor man of mine is lying for death, and I was 
in asking Dr. Power to come and give him the rites 
of the church.” 

“For death !” repeated Tim. “ Oh ! I trust it’s not 
so bad as that with him — poor John ! many a pleasant 
hour we spent together in our younger days. What 
does the doctor say to him ?” 

“ Oh I he says there’s no hope — none — none. But 
sure that’s not the worst of my trouble. I sent to let 
that unfortunate son of ours know of his father’s illness, 
and it’s what he sent me back word that he didn’t care 

a d n. He did, indeed, Mr. Flanagan, and oh I oh I 

but it’s the hard thing for me to have to tell it. He 
said he wouldn’t come next or nigh us, and that the 
old fellow might go to blazes, for all he cared. Oh I 


A MARRIAGE. 


211 


think of that, Mr. Flanagan — think of that message for 
a poor, heart-broken creature like me, to get from her 
own son about his own father.” 

“ God help you — God help you I that’s all I can say.” 

“ But what in the world will I do, Mr. Flanagan ?” 
exclaimed the wretched woman ; “ my eldest daughter is 
away out of the city — God only knows where ; a,nd I 
haven’t a dollar between me and death, except this two- 
dolfar bill that Father Power’s after giving me — the 
Lord’s blessing be about him now and for evermore.” 

Edward whispered some words to his father, who 
nodded assent, and then addressed Mrs. Dillon, who stood 
as if waiting for an answer. “Well, go home now, my 
poor dear woman, and keep up your heart as well as you 
can, though I know it’s not easy. You’re not so deso- 
late as you think. I’ll tell my wife when I get home, 
and she’ll be with you in the morning, if she’s a living 
woman. And if the worst does happen, Mrs'. Dillon,” 
his voice trembling with emotion, “ you’ll find plenty of 
friends, take my word for it. Good night, and may God 
comfort your afflicted heart I” 

Mrs. Dillon’s answer reached the father and son as 
they entered the lighted hall. Her words were few, but 
they came from her heart : 

“ May you or yours never know the want of a friend, 
or the want of God’s blessing I” she added, in a hoarse 
sepulchral voice, as she thought of her unnatural son. 

When Tim Flanagan and his son were shown into Dr. 
Power’s parlor, they found him preparing for his sick-call. 
He was just taking up his ritual to set out, but on seeing 
the Flanagans, he laid down his book, and advanced to 
meet them with a cordial shake of the hand. 

“ You are both heartily welcome,” said he, with his 


212 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


benignant smile. “ I liope the family are all iii good 
health. Pray be seated.” 

‘‘We’re all well, thanks be to God,” replied Tim. 
“ We had something particular to say to your reverence, 
but we’ll not detain you now. Another time will do as 
well. We met that poor unfortunate Mrs. Dillon at the 
door, and she told us how matters stood.” 

“Ah ! poor woman, she’s much to be pitied,’’ observed 
the doctor ; “ did she tell you of her son’s ingratitude ?” 

“ Yes, sir, she told us all,” said Tim, eagerly. “ But 
how in the world does it happen that she and her hus- 
band are so miserably poor ; why, it Is only a very few 
years since they were quite comfortable.” 

“ Sickness, my good friend ; sickness has exhausted 
their little means. Poor Dillon has been unable to work 
for the last twelve months. The consequence was that 
his business very soon dropt off, and he was obliged to 
dismiss his hands. The little he had saved was soon 
expended when nothing was being added to it, and so the 
poor old couple have gradually come to the destitute 
state in which you find them.” 

“What a heartless wretch is that son of theirs !” 
cried Tim, in the fervor of his generous sympathy. “ I 
“don’t know what that vagabond deserves !” 

“ God forgive him his sins !” said the priest, mildly. 
“ I am heartily sorry for him, if my sorrow could do him 
any good. The poor old woman is much troubled about 
not having the means of burying her husband decently.” 

“ Well, tell her from me, your reverence,” said Tim, 
dashing away a tear which he could not repress — “tell 
her from me that if it pleases God to call poor John 
away now, he’ll have as decent a funeral as wt can give 
him. He was a good-hearted fellow all his life ; besides, 


A MARRIAGE. 


213 


lie was an Irishman and a Catholic, and he must have a 
decent burial ; Edward and I will see after it ourselves.’^ 

“It is just what I would expect from you,” said Dr. 
Power, with a friendly smile. “ And now, what can I do 
for you ? — you came on business, did you not 

“ Oh, that is of no consequence, sir,” replied Edward, 
speaking for the first time ; “ we can wait for another 
opportunity.” 

The Doctor smiled again, and fixed his keen eyes on 
Edward^s face. “ I can hardly believe you Edward,” 
said he, “ although it is the first time I doubted your 
veracity. The business on which you come is of great 
consequence ; what say you, Timothy ?” 

“ I can’t contradict your reverence,” said Tim ; “it’s 
a matter that everbody knows to be no joke. I see your 
reverence has got an inkling of it already.” 

“ You are not mistaken, Timothy. I havef heard cxf 
this matter, and I am well pleased with Edward’s choice. 
If you came merely to consult me, as I think you did, 
there is no need for further postponement. I can give you 
my opinion in half a dozen words. Margaret O’Calla* 
ghari is just the wife I would have chosen for Edward 
Flanagan. This is my answer for the present, so that 
you need not delay your arrangements waiting for my 
approbation ; you have it, and may God bless you all the 
days of your life ! — Good night, my w'orthy friends. I 
must hasten to bring the consolations of our holy reli- 
gion to that poor, destitute, old man.” 

Dr. Pow'er then threw his cloak over his shoulders, 
took up his ritual once more, and set out on his mission 
of mercy, w^hile Tim Flanagan and his son retraced their 
steps to their owm quiet dwelling. 

Tim was not long in the house until he told Nelly the 


214 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


whole story of Mrs. Dillon^s sorrows, and Nelly was so 
deeply touched by the recital that she “ never closed an 
eye ” that night. Indeed, very little would have induced 
her to go off at once “ to see what she could do for the 
poor old couple,” and it was only Tim^s positive commands 
that kept her at home. Mrs. Flanagan had certain sin- 
gular notions of her own, which are only to be accounted 
for by her old-fashioned Irish breeding. 



\ 


THE DILLONS — AN IRISH FUNERAL. 215 


CHAPTER XIII. 

FILIAL LOVE AMONGST THE DILLONS — AN IRISH FUNERAL. 

Next morning Mrs. Flanagan set out very early for 
the desolate home of the Dillons. She found them, after 
some search, in an alley notorious alike for its want of 
cleajiliness and want of light — perhaps moral as well as 
physical. Be that as it may, it is certain that both 
John Dillon and his wife had only taken up their abode 
within its dreary precincts because it afforded them a 
shelter which they could not obtain in more respectable 
localities. For months past the sole support of the 
family had been the earnings of the youngest daughter, 
amounting, on an average, to three dollars a week — a 
scanty pittance to provide all that had to be provided. 
The girl herself felt it hard, very hard, to be burdened 
with the maintenance of her father and mother, and occa- 
sionally came out with something very like an anatliema, 
in regard to her brother and sister, who, as she said, 
left the whole burden upon her shoulders.” Still, to 
do her justice, she did what she could to make the old 
people comfortable, grumbling more or less at times. 
Her days were spent from seven in the morning till six 
in the evening, in the work-room of a tailoring establish- 


216 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


nieiit, so that she had bat little to do with the care of 
her sick father, or the work of the little household. 
Before her father “ got to be very bad,” Hannah used 
to go home to her dinner, but latterly she preferred to 
take her dinner with hei% because “ it was so dreadful 
dull at home — nothing but groaning and crying, and tak- 
ing medicine, and all that,” so poor Hannah found it 
more to her taste to eat her dinner amongst the girls 
in the work-room (several of whom brought their din- 
ners with them, like herself), rather than by the sick-bed 
of her old father. 

When Mrs. Flanagan arrived, panting under the load 
of a heavy basket, she found the old man in a feverish 
slumber, his eyes half open, and his thin, wasted hand, 
instinctively clutching at the faded coverlit, a relic o.f 
former prosperity. His wife was sitting beside the bed, 
her hands clasped on her knees, and her eyes fixed on the 
emaciated face of her suffering husband. 

“ Bless my soul, Mrs. Dillon I what’s come over you ?” 
said Mrs. Flanagan, in a low whisper, as she set down 
her basket on the floor. “ Don’t be so down-hearted 
altogether, though, God knows, it’s hard for you to be 
otherwise !” she added, as if to herself. “ How is poor 
John tills morning ?” 

“Yery middling, Mrs. Flanagan; he put in a poor 
night of it. I’m afraid he’s not long for this world. But 
won’t you sit down — though it’s a poor place for the like 
of you. I saw the day I had as comfortable a house as 
any one could put their foot in, but that day is gone — 
fa-rear gar, it is 1” And a burst, of tears choked her 
utterance. 

“Now, don’t be fretting or repining, Mrs. Dillon; 
every one has their turn of prosperity. Your turn may 


THE DILLONS AN IRISH FUNERAL. 217 


come again, and if it never comes in this world, it may 
be just as well for your soul. God sends you these little 
troubles because he wants to detach you from the world.’^ 

She had been unpacking the basket while she spoke, and 
had its contents spread on the only table the place could 
boast of. “ Here’s a pair of chickens I brought you — 
they’re just ready for the pot, so let us make a fire and 
put down one of them to make some soup for John.” 

Mrs. Dillon’s gratitude was too deep for words. She 
could not speak, but taking the hand of her kind friend, 
she squeezed it between her own, and looked in her face 
with such a sorrowful expression that Mrs. Flanagan 
could hardly keep from crying with her. But that would • 
never do, as she said to herself ; she came to encourage 
and to help, not to cry. 

By the time the old man awoke, his wife had a cup of 
the soup ready for him. “ Here, John, dear, I’ve got 
some nice chicken-soup for you.” 

“ Chicken-soup !” repeated her husband, in an incredu- 
lous tone ; “ why, where would yon get chicken-soup ? — 
you’re only joking, Betsy.” 

“Indeed and I’m not joking, John. If I hadn’t the 
soup to give you, it would be a poor joke to talk of it. 
God has raised up good friends for us when we least 
expected it. Here’s Mrs. Flanagan waiting to see you, 
and it’s her you may thank for the chicken-soup, not to 
speak of other nice things that she brought for you. 
May the Lord reward her !” “ Amen, Betsy, amen. 

But where is she — let me see her ?” 

“ Here I am, John,” said Mrs. Flanagan, coining for- 
ward to the' bed-side, and hastily wiping away the tears 
which she would not have him see ; “ I’m sorry to see you^ 
so lo.w,. but I hope you’ll soon get a turn for the better.” 

10 


218 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


John Dillon shook his head. “ No hopes of that, Mrs. 
Flanag*an. The next turn I get will be the last one. 
May God prepare me for that hour !’’ he said, raising his 
eyes to heaven. Then a sudden thougfit seemed to strike 
him : “ Betsy, did you see anything of Hugh since 

“ Since when V’ inquired his wife. 

“ Since yesterday ! — oh ! sure, I forgot — oh I I did — 
I did ! — God help me ! I wish I could forget altoge- 
ther.” He took a few spoonfuls of the broth which 
seemed to revive him, then motioning away the cup with 
his hand, he lay for a few moments silent, while the two 
women stood looking alternately at him and each other. 

Suddenly starting, as if an adder had stung him, he 
turned to his wife : “ Betsy, I tell you I must see him 
before I die — he must come here, till I tell him what’s on 
my mind ! I can’t die with that heavy load on my soul I 
Maybe his father's last words might touch his heart, and 
put him in mind of his own poor soul — oh ! that soul 1’^ 
he said^ in a hoarse whisper, that unfortunate soul 
that I have to answer for I Oh, God ! oh, God I won’t 
you have pity on me and save him ? Don’t let him per- 
ish through my fault !” 

“John, dear!” said his wife^ “don’t be wearing away 
the little strength you have, fretting about that unfor 
tunate boy I God will bring him round in his own 
time.” 

The sick man turned upon her .almost fiercely. “ He 
will not bring him round ! I tell you lio l-^no ! — no ! 
I might have brought him round when he ^was young 
and easily led, and I didn’t do it ! I let him go on in 
his own way till he got too big and strong for me ;to 
manage, and I have his death upon me — the death of his 
soul — I have, Betsy ; you needn’t look at me that way ^ 


THE DILLONS AN IRISH FUNERAL. 21^ 


Pm not mad ; iPs all true that Pm saying. Both of us 
•are in fault, Bet.sy, and we’re both suffering for it now. 
God grant that we mayn’t have to suffer for it here- 
after, too I” 

Mrs. Billon only answered with her tears. Conscience 
told her that her husband’s words were but too true, and 
she knew not how to offer consolation. Mrs. Flanagan 
came to her assistance. 

“Now, John Dillon, what’s the use of talking that 
way I Don’t you remember the old saying, what canH he 
cured must he endured 1 Just make up your mind to do the 
will of God while you’re in the world, let that be long or 
short — pray to God and our Blessed Mother to protect 
you and yours — and, above all, John, pray for the grace 
to die a happy death. Leave the rest to God. Don’t 
let me hear another word about the past — let hy-gones he 
hy-gonesV 

“ Well, but I want'to see that son of mine, Mrs. Flana- 
gan ; I can’t die easy without seeing him. And that 
poor Celia. Oh ! if I could only get them all to listen 
to me for one half-hour I Betsy will you go and tell 
Hugh that he must come and see me ! — will you ?” 

“ I will, John ! if you wish it, but I know very well 
it’s no use !” 

“ Well ! can’t you try ?” 

“ Go off at once !” whispered Mrs. Flanagan ; “ Pll 
stay with him till you come back — but mind and don’t 
stay long ?” 

Mrs. Dillon threw her thin, faded shawl over her 
shoulders, and went off in quest of her hopeful son. 
About half an h.our had passed, marked only by the low 
moaning of tlie sick man, and his occasional glances 
towards the door, when Mrs. Dillon once more made her 


220 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


appearance. Hearing her light step on the stairs, her 
husband turned his head quickly in the direction of the 
sound, and fixed his heavy eyes on the door. His wife 
entered, even paler and more miserable-looking than when 
she left. She was alone. Mrs. Flanagan looked at the 
old man. He had his eye fixed on his wife as though 
trying to read her thoughts. 

“Well ?” said he, in a tone of anxious inquiry. 

“ I couldn’t find him !” 

“Yes ! you did find him, Betsy!— don’t tell me a lie — 
you did find him. I see it in your face. What did he 
say to you — tell me at once, if you don’t mean to kill 
me ?” 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Flanagan, dear, dear, what will I say to 
him ?” whispered the unfortunate mother. “ I can’t tell 
him what hz said — it would kill him.” 

“ No, it wouldn’t,” cried Dillon ; “ I suspect the worst, 
so you needn’t fear to tell me. What did Hugh say 
when you told him I wanted to see him before I died f” 
“ He asked me — oh ! God help you and me I — he asked 
me had you any money for him — if not, there was no use 
in him coming. — God forgive him this day, as I do 1” 

“ That’s enough 1” said the old man, in an altered tone; 
“ I’ve heard the worst now 1 Death may come now at 
any time. Oh ! Jesus, Mary and Joseph comfort me in 
my last agony I I had a son once, and two daughters, 
but there’s two of them gone now. I’m a poor deserted 
old man. Oh I Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t you 
desert me, or I’m lost for ever 1” 

Mrs. Flanagan’s heart was ready to burst. She arose, 
and pressing Mrs. Dillon’s hand, told her she would 
return in the evening with Tim. “And be sure to make 
poor John take some more of the soup 1” said she ; 


THE DILLONS.— -AN IRISH FUNERAL. 221 

“keep it warm on the stove.’^ The other nodded assent, 
and shook the kind hand of her benefactress, but she 
could not articulate a word. Bending over the sick man, 
Mrs. Flanagan said in a low voice, “ God be with you, 
John, till I see you again. I’ll be back with Tim in the 
evening.” 

“ God bless you,” was the fervent reply ; “ God spare 
you over your children, and good children they are ! If 
we meet no more in this world, pray for me, Mrs. Flana- 
gan — the prayers of the just are valuable before God !” 

“ Why, surely, you don’t mean to die so soon ?” said 
Mrs. Flanagan, with a forced smile. “ With God’s help, 
you’ll live this many a day yet !” Dillon shook his head. 
He knew and felt that death was not far off. 

In the evening, when Tim Flanagan and his wife 
entered the poor dwelling of the Dillons, they found death 
before them. A few of the neighbors, men and women, 
were grouped around the bed, and on it lay the stark, 
cold body of John Dillon, already decently “laid out” 
by the pitying kindness of “ the neighbor women.” The 
bereaved and heart-broken wife sat in a corner near the 
bed, her head bowed down, and her hands resting on her 
knees, the picture of hopeless sorrow. Her daughter 
sat at the farther end of the room, neatly, even tastefully 
dressed, and carrying on what seemed to be an interesting 
conversation with a certain Watty Sullivan, a particular 
acquaintance of her brother’s. 

Both Tim and his wife were shocked to find the old 
man dead, but Mrs. Flanagan said within herself, as she 
thought of what she had seen and heard in the morning : 
“ after all, it’s so much the better— what had he to live 
^ for?” 

, The sight of Mrs. Flanagan drew a fresh burst of grief 


222 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


from the widow, but it did not last long, for her kind 
friend soon convinced her that God had dealt mercifully 
with poor John in taking him from a world where he had 
nothing to expect but misery. After spending a few 
hours at the wake, Tim and Nelly returned home, the 
former observing that he had to be up early next morn- 
ing, “for,” said he, “1 want to make preparations for 
the funeral as soon as I can.” 

“ God reward you, Mr. Flanagan I” was the fervent 
ejaculation of most of those present. Mrs. Dillon rose 
from her seat and went with them to the door, saying, as 
they parted, “ 1 leave all to you, Mr. Flanagan I After 
God, you’re the only hope I have I” 

“ Mother !” said Hannah Dillon, with a flushed cheek, 
“ one would think you were a beggar. It’s real mean of 
you to talk so I” 

“ Ah I God help me, Hannah ! I’m mean enough — 
we’re all mean enough — there’s no use trying to hide it I” 

“ Well said, Hannah !” whispered Watty ; “ I like to 
see a girl having some spirit in her ! Things ain’t so bad 
that the old woman might speak like that. I wouldn’t 
let her if I were you !” 

Hannah smiled graciously on her admirer, but, as the 
subject was not particularly agreeable, she changed it for 
one more to her liking, asking Watty if he knew Mike 
Sheridan. 

“ What ! Hugh’s old acquaintance ?” 

“ The very same.” 

“ Yes, I guess I do. What of him ?” 

“ Why, he was here this afternoon, since father died, 
and, only think, he was quite sorry for the old man, and 
promised to come back this evening with his father and 
some of their friends. Ain’t that curious ?” 


THE DILLONS AN IRISH FUNERAL. 223 


“Well, I guess it is,” replied Watty, with rather a 
thoughtful air, as though he were endeavoring to account 
for such singular infatuation. The attempt was hopeless, 
it would appear, for he shook his head, and said with a 
quiet smile : “ They’re a rum set, these church-going 

folks ; there’s no knowing what they’re up to, for they 
don’t ever do things like other people.” 

“ Next morning Tim Flanagan and Dan Sheridan went 
out together as soon as they got their respective break- 
fasts. They had, as they said, a good forenoon’s work 
before them, and there was no time to be lost. 

“And I wish we may be able to do anything after all,” 
said Dan, as he buttoned up his great coat in prepara- 
tion for starting ; “ the people haven’t much pity for John 
Dillon — that’s a fact ; because they know he brought it 
all on himself by the way in which he brought up his 
family. For my part. I’m heart sorry for the poor woman 
he left behind him, and sure enough it grieved me to hear 
of him dying in such wretched poverty, a man that vve 
all saw so well off not many years ago ; but still and all, 
Tim, I’m afraid that others won’t have as much feeling 
for him as you and I have,” 

“ Well, well, Dan, we must only make the trial. Faint 
heart 'never won fair lady. Remember that. Let us step 
out in the name of God. You’ll see we’ll do better than 
you expect.” 

“ May the Lord bless your undertaking I” said Mrs. 
Flanagan, as she closed the door after them. When she 
had sent the girls to school, and left the dinner all 
arranged readv for cooking, she put on her bonnet and 
shawl, and walked down to the burial-house, just to see 
how things were going on there. 

It was a full hour after Tim’s usual dinner-hour when 


224 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


he and his trusty friend returned. They were both in 
high spirits, and that was “proof positive” that their 
mission of mercy was crowned with success. They had 
collected a sum of ninety dollars. 

“ So you see, Nelly, we didn’t spend our forenoon for 
nothing. Dan and myself are going to make up the hun- 
dred. That will leave a nice penny for poor Mrs. Dillon, 
after paying all expenses.” 

“ God be praised for that,” said Mrs. Flanagan ; 
“ there’s not a woman in New York city that’s more in 
need of it. Sit down, Dan, and take some dinner with us.” 

“Well, I believe I will,” replied honest Dan. “I 
think Tim and myself have earned our dinner well. I 
tell you what, Tim, I’m in more humor of eating now 
than I was. at breakfast-time.” 

“Pooh, pooh, man, you’re too easy cast down. I 
wouldn’t give a pin for a fellow that can’t look a diffi- 
culty straight in the face. Hold your plate for a wing 
of this turkey. Nelly, were Edward and John home to 
dinner ?” 

“ Oh, yes, fully an hour ago. Edward was in a hurry, 
for he had to buy some clothes that Thomas sent in for 
before he’d go back to the store.” 

“ Oh ! by George, I forgot all about them clothes,” 
cried Tim. “ I was to have got them yesterday — and 
poor Tom wants them, too ; for he said in the note that 
he was to get leave to come into town next Sunday. 
Isn’t it the greatest comfort in the world to have the 
boys so near us, that we can see them whenever we like ? 
If our good bishop never did anything else but get up 
that college, at Fordham, for us, w'e’d owe him a debt 
of gratitude. It was only once or twice a year the poor 
boys could see us when they w'ere at Emmettsburgh.” 


THE DILLONS AN IRISH FUNERAL. 225 


‘‘True for you,” observed Dan ; “ I can’t tell you how 
happy wt all feel ever since Peter came to Fordham last 
year.” 

“ And so Edward bought the clothes, Nelly ?” said 
Tim, thoughtfully. “Well, Pm sure I don’t know what 
we’d do only for him, he has such a good memory.” . 

“ And such a good head altogether, and such a good 
heart,” said Dan, warmly ; “his memory’s ouly the least 
part of his goodness. God has done his own share for 
him, and no mistake.” 

It is needless to say that neither Tim nor Nelly dis- • 
sented from Dan’s opinion.. The voice that praised their 
son was music to their hearts. 

On the second morning after John Dillon’s death, the 
house was filled with people come to attend his funeral. 
Even outside the door a crowd was collected, waiting for 
the appointed time. Within the house all was silent, 
except the smothered groans of the widow, and the 
rather ostentatious wailing of the daughter. The people 
without were discussing pretty freely, as is usual on such 
occasions, the merits and demerits of the dead — his pros- 
perity in business, and his most remarkable downfall. 
On the causes which produced the latter effect, nearly 
all were of one mind, and the general tone of the con- 
versation was anything but complimentary to the absent 
representative of the house of Dillon. All at once there 
was a dead pause, and everybody looked round to see 
what was the matter. Several voices said, in smothered 
accents : “ There he is — look ! look I” And there, indeed, 
he was — Hugh Dillon himself, standing at the door look- 
ing in, a cigar in his mouth, and his white hat drawn 
down over his eyes. He made no attempt to enter, but 
stood motionless for some minutes, perhaps turning the 


226 


BI. AKES AND FLANAGANS. 


matter over in his own mind. People held tlieir breath 
in expectation, almost dreading some violent outbreak of 
remorseful grief, but no such thing. After a little while, 
the affectionate son turned away quite composedly, say- 
ing : 

“ I guess the old man is gone at last — ain’t he 

Most of the people were too much disgusted to answer, 
but one young fellow, a stout longshoreman, quickly 
spoke for the others : “I guess he is — did you know 
him, comrade ?” 

There was a scornful smile on the speaker’s lips, and 
a cutting sarcasm in his words, which Dillon well under- 
stood. Turning fiercely on him, he shoved back his hat, 
and regarded him a moment with a scowl of unutterable 
hatred. 

“ What would you give to know ?” said he, slowly and 
sternly. “ We’ve met before now, Piiil Ryan, and I have 
a score against you since our last meeting !” He 
clenched his fist, and flung away his cigar, as if in 
preparation for a fierce struggle. 

“ You must keep your score for another time, my 
hearty,” said the stalwart Tipperary man, with the cool- 
est composure ; “ bottle up your anger, my fine fellow 
— this is neither the time nor the place to settle a 
quarrel.” 

Dillon was going to make an angry reply, when a low 
murmur ran through the crowd : “ Hush ! here’s the 
corpse !” The hearse had been some time in waiting. 
k shudder ran through Dillon’s frame, and his hard, 
strong heart wms shaken for a moment, when the coffin 
was carried out, and the first of the bearers on whom 
Ms eye fell was Mike Sheridan. Yes, so it was. The 
four men who bore the body of John Dillon to the hearse 


THE DILLONS — AN IRISH FUNERAL. 227 


were Mike Sheridan and his father, Tim Flanagan, and 
anotlier wortliy Irishman named Patrick Donnelly, whom 
Hugh well remembered, for he had onee given him a 
black eye in return for certain good advice which he 
had no mind to follow. Many an eye was fixed on the 
unhappy young man, and it was said that there did 
come a certain change over his features. The sight was 
strange, indeed, to him, for Christian charity or national 
sympathy were alike strangers to his heart, and their 
benign aspect w’as for him dull and meaningless. Still, 
he was softened for a moment, and did actually assist to 
place the coffin in the hearse. 

“ I say, Mike,” said he, holding out his hand, which 
Mike did not refuse, though, if truth must be told, he 
looked as though he wished he could. To him, Dillon 
was all but a parricide. “ I say, Mike ! this is real 
kind of you. Where are you going to bury the old 
man ?” 

“ In the Catholic burying-ground, in Eleventh street ; 
where else should we bury him ?” 

“ Then you may all go to — a warm place for wig,” cried 
Dillon. “ I’ll be hanged if I go with him to that there 
Popish burying-ground.” ^ 

“ Nobody asked you to go,” said Mike, coolly. “ Pd 
be sorry to send you or any one else where you’re after 
sending us ; but Pd advise you to go about your busi- 
ness, Hugh Dillon. We can bury your fiither without 
you, and we’ll do it, with God’s help. He died a Chris- 
tian, and he shall have Christian burial. Stand out of 
the way !” 

For a moment, Dillon looked as though he would 


* This is a fact which I was told by an eyewitness. 


228 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

resist, and keep his ground ; but, as he glanced around 
on the throng of stern, angry faces, by which he was sur- 
rounded, he suddenly changed his mind, and skulked off 
through the crowd, amid the smothered execrations of 
some, and the dreary predictions of others. “ He’ll never 
die in his bed, I’m sure of that I” “ He’ll be made an 
example of before he leaves this world !” “ If there’s a 

God above, he’ll suffer both here and hereafter I” Such 
were the pleasing sounds which met his ear on every side, 
as he made his retreat, looking defiance at every succes- 
sive speaker. He had barely reached the angle of the 
court when he saw the funeral move away, his unfortu- 
nate mother and sister being placed in a hackney-coach 
immediately after the hearse. It was, on the whole, a 
large and respectable funeral, perhaps, quite as much so 
as it would have been had John Dillon died at the height 
of his prosperity. The sight was a characteristic one, 
and highly creditable to the warm-hearted race whose 
sympathies are ever with the destitute and the oppressed. 
I, for one, cannot but respect the feeling which gives 
rise to such demonstrations. It is an old Celtic prac- 
tice, and is easily excusable in a warm-hearted, generous 
people, brought together, or rather thrown together, in 
a strange land. Long, very long, may it be before the 
Irish in America cease to cherish 

“ The kind old friendly feelings 

inherent in their Irish nature. Even though the stranger 
may sneer at such exhibitions, they are dear and accepta- 
ble to every genuine Irish heart. It is quite certain that 
there were many “intelligent persons’’ at poor John 
Dillon’s funeral, large and Irish though it w^as, and I 
think they would have been more than a little surprised 


THE DILLONS — AN IRISH FUNERAL. 229 


had any one even hinted that the demonstration was at 
all indecorous or un-Catholic. Every man to his taste, 
say I. The Irish people in America have surely a right 
to bury their dead iu whatever way they please. If dis- 
grace there be, it is all their own — they ask no one to 
share it with them. 

When the funeral was over, Mrs. Dillon and her daugh- 
ter returned to their desolate home. Hannah was natu- 
rally kind-hearted, and where vanity did not interfere, she 
was well disposed to do what she could for her mother. 
But, unfortunately, Watty Sullivan came to hear of the 
seventy-five dollars which Tim Flanagan had handed over 
to the widow, and his attentions increased seventy-five 
fold. Hannah’s love of dress increased iu due proportion, 
and she gave her mother neither rest nor peace till she 
bought her a handsome suit of mourning — very deep 
mourning, indeed, as became Hannah’s grief. Poor Mrs. 
Dillon had a nervous fear of getting through her little 
funds, so the only thing she bought for herself was a 
black gown of the coarsest stuff. Grief was in her heart, 
as she said herself, and it mattered little whether she wore 
black or not. As for Hannah, she had no sooner secured 
her mourning than she began to come out again, and, 
newfangled with her sable habiliments, delighted in show- 
ing off with Watty, and made it her chief pride — 

“ To bear about the mockery of woe, 

To midnight dances and the public show.” 

About a month after John Dillon’s death, his widow 
came to Tim Flanagan’s one afternoon, her eyes red with 
weeping. 

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Mrs, Dillon,” 


230 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


inquired Mrs. Fliinao^an, in her kind, soothinor way. 
“I hope there’s nothing wrong ?” 'e 

“ Not much, Mrs. Flanagan, not much,” replied the 
poor woman, with an attempt at regaining her composure. 
“ Nothing ouglit to grieve me now, after wdiat I havt 
come through. Still it’s hard, very hard, to have one’s 
own child deny the mother that bore her ! Oh, Mrs. 
Flanagan, it’s hard — hard I” and her tears broke out 
afresh. 

“ Why, what has happened to you now ? — is it Hugh 
you mean V 

“ Oh ! no, no ; if it was I think 1 wouldn’t feel so 
bad, for I don’t expect any better from him, but it was 
Celia, my daughter Celia, that gave me that cruel 
wound.” 

“ Your daughter Celia — why, I thought she vvasii’t in 
town ?” 

“ And so I thought, too, Mrs. Flanagan ; but it seems 
she is. About an hour ago I was going down Leonard 
street with a bundle of clothes that 1 was taking home 
to Mrs. Lambton (you know I wash for her, ma’aih), 
when who should I see but my daughter Celia walking 
witii a young man. She was so gaily dressed that I had 
to look twice before I could believe my eyes, but it was 
her sure enough, and myself was so overjoyed that I 
caught her in my arms, and called out ‘ Celia, Celia, God 
be praised that I see you again !’ ” 

“Well ! and what did she say I” inquired Mrs. Flanar 
gan, anxiously. 

“ Say ! why she drew herself away from me, as if I 
was dirt in her eyes, and when the young man asked 
‘ who is that woman V she told him I was an old woman 


THE DILLONS — AN IRISH FUNERAL. 231 


that used to wash for her. ‘ Oh I indeed !’ says he ; ‘I 
thought she might be some friend’ ; but Celia answered 
very quick : ‘ Oh 1 not at all — good-bye, Mrs. Mullin’ — 
that’s what she called me — ‘ I’ll see you some day soon.’ 
And so they walked off. Well, Mrs. Flanagan, dear, 
the sight left my eyes, and there came such a weakness 
over me that I had to sit down with my bundle-on a 
door-step. It was a mercy somebody didn’t steal the 
clothes, for I must have been in a kind of a faint, and 
lay against the door, till a lady that was passing roused 
me up, and when I began to come to, I burst out a 
crying, and I think that done me good, for I got strouger 
every minute, and was soon able to go home with the 
clothes. Then I came straight on here to tell you my 
trouble. God is good to me, after all, in giving me such 
kind friends as you and Mrs. Sheridan. Mrs. Reilly, 
too, is always glad to see me, poor and desolate as I am.” 

Mrs. Flanagan did not think it prudent to express all 
she felt on hearing this sorrowful story. She applied 
herself rather to console the poor mother, by reminding 
her of that blissful region 

“ Beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,’ 

where sin and sorrow are alike unknown. Gradually 
did the benign influence of hope allay the storm of mater- 
nal anguish, and by the time Mrs. Flanagan had made a 
nice fresh cup of tea, and prevailed on her guest to take 
it, Mrs. Dillon felt “as if she had been in another world,” 
to borrow her own homely phrase. “ I think I can go 
home now,” said she, “ and tell Hannah ; though, that’s 
true, she’ll not be home till six o’clock. Well, God be 
with you, Mrs. Flanagan, you’ve made my heart as light 
as a feather 1” 


232 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

GREAT DOINGS AT TIM FLANAGAN^S — MR. HENRY T. BLaAE 
BECOMES A PROMINENT INDIVIDUAL. 

I ONLY wish it were in my power to tell my young 
readers how Edward Elanagan wooed and won the fair 
Margaret O’Callaghan. Unfortunately for our curiosity, 
the young lady was exceedingly modest, and kept the 
matter as secret as possible. Strange to say, that, for 
some time, her father was her only confidant, and it 
was not till she had ascertain^ his favorable opinion of 
Edward, that she consented to receive him as a suitor 
Edward Flanagan was everything that she could wish ; 
their tastes, their predilections, were the same — they had 
grown up together under the same religious training ; 
Hiey had learned the catechism in the same church, heard 
4 from childhood up the same religious instructions, and 
received the sacraments before the same altar. Their life 
had run for years and years in the same course. Even in 
their love for Ireland, they had still another x bond of 
union. Margaret was Irish by birth, as she often 
boasted, and looked back to her native land with intense 
affection. She was ten years old when she left the Beau- 
tiful City, and the picturesque banks of the Lee were 


GREAT DOINGS AT TIM FLANAGAN^S. 233 

still fresh and green in her memory. She was Irish to 
the heart’s core, and had rejected the addresses of more 
than one admirer because they were not of her own race. 
And a genuine Irish girl was Margaret O'Callaghan, with 
her delicate Celtic features, her lithe elastic form, full of 
grace and symmetry, her blue eyes,, with their long lashes, 
and her dark auburn hair. But better than all was her 
warm, loving heart, and her pure soul, the living abode 
of faith, hope, and charity.' Well might Dr. Power say 
that Margaret O’Callaghan was just the wife he would 
choose for Edward Flanagan, for he well knew that his 
favorite could appreciate the young lady’s excellence, 
independent of her prospects as the only child of a 
wealthy father. Next to her own dear father, Margaret 
loved and respected Edward’s parents, and she used often 
to say to Mrs. Flanagan that the prospect of having her 
for a mother was, in itself, no small inducement with her. 
Mrs. Flanagan, on her side, loved Margaret as a daugh- 
ter long before she became Edward’s wife, so that the 
transition was on both sides easy and natural. 

Mr. O’Callaghan thought every day a week till he saw 
the knot tied. Perhaps he might not have been so 
anxious to see Margaret married, had it entailed a sepa- 
ration, but such was not the case. The old gentleman 
had stipulated, from the first, that his daughter was not 
to leave him, an arrangement which was quite agreeable 
to Edward. 

As the time appointed for the wedding drew near, all 
was bustle and joyous excitement in Tim Flanagan’s. 
Margaret could buy no article, either of dress or furni- 
ture, unless Mrs. Flanagan was with her. Messengers 
were going to and fro between the two houses the whole 
day long, except when Margaret came with her sewing to 




234 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


spend the day with Mrs. Flanagan, in order to have the 
benelit of her advice in whatever article she was fabri- 
cating. On these occasions, Tim kept up a continual fire 
on the maidenly modesty of his future daughter-in-law, 
with his arch looks and sly hints. Many were the 

“Nods, and winks, and wreath’d smiles,” 

wherewith he besieged both the young people, until 
Edward would sometimes say, with a good-humored 
smile : 

“ Well, father, if you don’t spare our blushes more 
than you do, I will carry Margaret off bodilj, and 
restore her to the paternal dwelling. Do you suppose 
our faces are made of brass 

“ And if you did carry her off home,” said the incor- 
rigible Tim, “ she wouldn’t be long away. She couldn’t 
keep from us, let her do her best. Eh, Maggie ? isn’t 
that true ?” 

Margaret would smile and say : You say so, sir !” 
or something of the kind, and then Mrs. Eianagan would 
throw her cegis over Margaret, and tell Tim to be off and 
mind his business — if he had any. “ And Edward, you 
get your flute and give us a tune.” Or, “ Ellie wants to 
play her new piece for Margaret.” Tim was thus “bound 
over to keep the peace ” — which he would scrupulously 
do until another opportunity offered for cracking a joke 
at Margaret’s expense. 

At length the important day arrived, and a lovely day 
it was ; a rich, soft, autumn day, witli the bright sun- 
shine streaming down on the gladdened earth, and the 
air full of life and full of balm. Both Edward and 
Margaret had been to confession on the previous day, 
and both received the Holy Communion on the morning 


A MARRIAGE. 


235 


of their marriage. So, too, did Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan, 
and Mr. 0 Callaghan, at the special request of the young 
couple. It was a beautiful sight, and one that was long 
remembered with pleasure by all those who were present 
on the occasion. Dr. Power said Mass, and performed 
the marriage ceremony, and when he met the whole 
party in the vestry-room, after Mass, his face was radiant 
with joy as he congratulated the youthful pair whom his 
ministry had made one. “ And you, my worthy friends,” 
said he, addressing the respective parents : “ I think I 
have just as much right to congratulate you. Your 
children have entered upon a new state, which will, I 
trust, increase both their happiness and yours. You now 
form but one family. Your fortunes are henceforward 
bound up together. You have brought up your children 
in the love and fear of God ; you have done your duty 
by them ; you have fitted them to adorn and edify 
society, and, in so doing, you have laid up a store of 
happiness for your own declining years. In their virtue 
and their affection you have the surest guarantee for the 
future peace and prosperity of the whole family. God 
bless you all, and may you live together many, many 
years, in the enjoyment of every blessing ! I will now 
bid you good-morning, as I have to make my meditation 
before any one comes to interrupt me.” 

Mrs. Reilly was in her glory that morning, and she 
declared over and over again, that she didn’t think she 
could feel happier or prouder if it was Tom’s wedding-day. 

‘‘ Or your own — eh, Sally ?” 

“ Now, don’t be bothering me, Tim — don’t put me in a 
passion this morning, for it wouldn’t be lucky to get out 
of temper on such an occasion as this.” And Mrs. 
Reilly smiled most graciously. 


236 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“Well, well! get into the carriage there, and we^ll 
talk it oat when we get home.’^ This was at the church- 
door. “ I’m sure we’re all in need of our breakfast — I 
know I, for one, am. As for Edward and Margaret 
there, I suppose they’ll not eat a bit — -joy’s like grief, 
they say, and both are mighty apt to take away the 
appetite.” 

“ I beg your pardon, father,” said Edward, gaily ; “ I 
feel as if I could make a first-rate breakfast — I don’t 
know how it may be with Margaret.” Margaret smiled 
but said nothing, as Edward lifted her into the first 
carriage. With her went Edward, Tom Reilly, his 
groomsman, and Ellie Flanagan, the first bridesmaid. 
The elders of the families followed in two other carriages. 
The whole party breakfasted at Tim Flanagan’s, and a 
merry time they had of it. I only wish that every wed- 
ding-party amongst my readers may be even half as 
joyous. Mr. and Mrs. Blake, and Eliza, joined the 
breakfast-party, though they had not been able to go to 
church. Mr. Henry and his young wife were invited, 
but they sent a very polite note to say that they could 
not ^possibly come. They were very sorry, &c., &c. The 
reading of this note was most unceremoniously inter- 
rupted by Tim, with — “ That’s enough, John 1 they’re 
not for coming, and that’s all we want to know. Let 
them keep their empty ‘ compliments ’ and ‘ regrets ’ for 
those who value them. Thank God I we can enjoy our- 
selves without them, and, for my part, I’m not sorry 
they’re staying away, for, to tell the truth, they’d only 
throw a damp on the whole concern. We’ll have enough 
of the sort when we have Eliza, though it’s true she’s not 
quite so bad as her brother.” 

After breakfast, the young people, including Mike 


THE MARRIAGE PARTY. 


237 


Sheridan, set out on a trip to Staten Island, where they 
spent the day. The matrons of the party all adjourned 
to Mr. 0 ’Callaghan’s in order to prepare a grand supper 
for the numerous guests invited to the wedding. 

Miles Blake came back early in the evening with his 
wife and daughter, the latter bent on astonishing her 
Irish friends. She had herself been somewdiat astonished 
at the good style in wdiich her Aunt Flanagan got up 
her breakfast, and she wanted to see how the ball and 
supper would go off in the evening. An Irish wedding 
W'as something -new, and Eliza had an idea that it must 
be quite a droll affair. It is true she rather shrank from 
the noisy revelry which she had been taught to associate 
with Irish festivals ; but still she would try it for one 
evening, even at the risk of being bored to death. It 
would be a rich scene to have to describe ever after. So 
Eliza made up her mind to oblige her mother and Uncle 
Tim by gracing the ball with her presence. 

When the Blakes arrived, they found in Mr. O’Cal- 
laghan’s parlor Dan Sheridan and his wife, with Mrs. 
Reilly, Tim Flanagan, and Nelly, and their worthy host, 
his wig brushed up after the most approved fashion. 
Tim Flanagan called on Miles, as soon as he made his 
appearance, to back him in a bet he was making. 

“Let ine first hear what it is,” said Miles; “you 
wouldn’t have me huy a pig in a poke, would you ? — what 
is your bet about ?” 

“ Why, I was offering to bet Dan Sheridan here a 
dozen of port that I’d make a match between O’Callaghan 
and Sally Reilly before the year is out. What do you 
say ? will you back me ?” 

“ No, indeed, he will not, Tim,” cried Mrs. Reilly; “ it’g 
only fools like you that are so ready to stake their money. 


238 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


If Mr. Blake was so ready with his money he wouldn^t 
be as he is to-day. Do you hear that now, Tim ?” 

“Ido, Sally, but it doesn’t alter my opinion,” said 
Tim, with a sly wink at O’Callaghan, who lay back in 
his arm-chair enjoying the fun at his leisure. “ Don’t you 
know what the song says about the widow Malone, who' 
was won by the blarney of 

‘ One Lucius O’Brien from Clare, 

How quare I’ 

Don’t you know Sally, dear, that 

‘.They’re all like the Widow Malone, 

Ochone I 

They’re all like sweet Widow Malone !’ ” 

For a moment Mrs. Reilly looked as though she were 
about to resent the insinuation, whether made in jest or 
earnest ; but, fortunately, her good sense prevailed, and 
she laughed as heartily as any one present. There was a 
general call on Tim to finish the song (for he had sung 
the foregoing lines), which he did on condition that Eliza 
would play him “ Tatter Jack Walsh.^' Eliza w'as horri- 
fied at the name, and hastened to make a solemn declara- 
tion that she had never heard of such a tune. Every one 
present, except her father and mother, understood the 
comical gravity of Tim’s face, and there was forthwith an 
almost unanimous call for the aforesaid tune with the 
vulgar name, every one declaring it “ a fine old tune,” 
though, to say the truth, few of them had ever heard of 
it themselves. However, Tim sang the song, and Eliza 
commuted by playing Patrick’s Day, wdiich she had 
learned, she said, for the wedding, Mr. O’Gallaghan 
thanked her with a formal bow, and said it was certainly 
very good of her to patronize their old nationality so far. 


THE MARRIAGE PARTY. 


239 


“ I hope,” said he, “ you will be able to play Garry 
Owen by the time our wedding-day comes round ? — eh, 
Mrs. Reilly ?” 

“ I declare now,” said the lady last addressed, ‘‘ if you 
don’t let me alone, the whole set of you. I’ll leave the 
place altogether. It’s all very well when there’s no one 
but ourselves present, but I declare to my goodness I’ll 
clear out if you say a word of the kind to me before 
strangers. There never was a widow in our family that 
married a second time, to my knowledge, except niy Aunt 
Peggy, and every one knows how badly it turned out with 
her.” Every one did not know, but every one chose to 
appear as though they did, for fear of drawing out a 
series of genealogical tales. Even as it was, Mrs. Reilly 
contrived to give^the company an idea of the height from 
which her Aunt Peggy fell when she condescended to enter 
the tetnple of Hymen a second time, and that with Bar- 
ney Fogarty, who was no match for her at any time — 
alas ! for the dignity of her ancient line ! 

“ Seriously speaking,” said O’Callaghan, “ the feeling 
of our people runs strongly against second marriages. 
And, to tell the trutli, the women are still more opposed 
to it than the men. There is no denying the fact, that, in 
Ireland, there is a certain stigma attached to a second 
marriage, especially on the part of a widow. To their 
honor be it spoken, there are, perhaps, more virtuous, 
devoted widows amongst the Irish than any other people 
in the world. As for our friend, Mrs. Reilly, I would 
deem it almost a sacrilege to approach her as a suitor — 
the shades of two persons whom we respectively loved 
and honored would rise up between us and forbid the 
unnatural alliance. If there be any one thing for which 
I Cwspecially honor our valued friend, it is her devotion to 


240 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


the memory of her husband. Hers is the widowhood of 
the heart — and so is mine, too !” he added, his eyes fillini^ 
with tears. “ It is now seventeen years since I lost my 
poor Teresa, and she is still as fresh before my eyes as 
she was the day I laid her in her grave. Ah I my friends, 
there is something Aere,” and he laid his hand on his 
heart ; “ there is something here which forbids even the 
thought of a second marriage.” 

The conversation was becoming painfully serious, and 
Tim Flanagan was just coming out with one of his dry 
jokes (though in his heart he quite concurred with what 
O’Callaghan said), when the clatter of wheels, and the 
loud ringing of the door-bell, announced the return of the 
young people. In an instant all was bustle and excite- 
ment ; laughing, talking, and “ keeping up the fun,” 
seemed to be regarded as a sort of duty growing out of 
the occasion. 

The supper was dispatched as soon as possible in order 
to gratify the young people who were all impatient for 
the dancing to commence. When it did commence, it was 
kept up with spirit, and with little intermission till long 
after 

“ The iron tongue of midnight had toll’d twelve.” 


No one was exempted from the common law, which 
was cheerfully acknowledged as obligatory on all, save 
and except Mrs. Reilly, whose scruples were universally 
respected. Mr. Fitzgibbon executed a deux \\\i\\ 

Mrs. Blake in splendid style, remarking at the same time 
that it was a great pity the minueL ever went out of fas- 
hion. Even old Mr. Williams, a veteran leather-dresser, 
generally considered the father of the trade, was easily 
persuaded to stand up for a country-dance, and it was 


THE MARRIAGE PARTY. 


241 


long recorded as a notable fact, that before all was over, 
the old gentleman danced a very good jig with the fair 
bride. 

“I tell you what, Edward,” said he, “your wife is an 
Irishwoman every inch of her. I’d ask no more than to 
see how she danced that jig. If she had been brought 
up in Cork’s own town, she couldn’t have done it better.” 

Both Edward and his wife acknowledged the compli- 
ment, and both returned it with interest. The old man’s 
eye sparkled with a long-absent light., as he replied : 
“Well, I think I did do it pretty well, children, consi- 
dering that I have three score and five years on my back. 
I’m sure I little thought I’d ever dance a step again ; 
but then, I couldn’t refuse to try my old feet at Edward 
Flanagan’s wedding. Go off now to your sets, children, 
and let me rest awhile. God bless your kind hearts.” 

Early in the evening the good old gentleman had asked 
M iss Blake to dance (at her uncle Tim’s suggestion), but 
the young lady shrank from “ exhibiting with an old fel- 
low like that,” and her polite refusal was a thing he could 
not understand. Annie Sheridan danced with him, and 
Ellie Flanagan, and he could not conceive why Eliza 
Blake should refuse to humor an old friend of her family 
when he was exerting himself “ to keep up the fun I” 
Alas! for the discernment of good Mr. Williams; he 
forgot that Eliza had been trained up not in the way she 
should go, but in a way that detached her from her own 
people, and made her “ a stranger in their midst,” It is 
true, Eliza played, and sang, and danced a set or two of 
quadrilles, but still she could not enter into the spirit of 
the festival, and: it was painfully manifest to every one 
present that her heart was far away. Her father and 
mother made several attem^pts to cheer her up ; so, too,, 

'll 


242 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


did Mrs. Flanagan and her daughters, but it was all in 
vain Eliza was no hypocrite, and she could not, if she 
would, appear as gay as the merry, light-hearted girls 
around her. She felt that her ways were not their ways, 
and she wished she had not come. When the laughter 
was loudest, and the music gayest, and the dance most 
animated, she was thinking of Zachary and Jane, and 
Arabella, and wondering what they were about just then. 

Still, the evening passed, pleasantly away, with laugh, 
and song, and sparkling jest, and the national dances of 
the Irish, to their heart-enlivening music. Not a shade 
of sadness was visible on any brow, whether young or 
old (except that of Eliza), till the time came for breaking 
up, and it was very natural that Edward’s mother should 
feel and testify some degree of sorrow on leaving her son 
in his new home. “ Still, I don’t grudge him to you, 
Margaret,’’ said she, when they had lingered till nearly 
all were gone ; “ you are well worthy of him. He was 
ever and always the best of sons, and I’m sure you’ll 
find him the best of husbands. My blessing and the 
blessing of God be with you both, now and for ever.” 
Her words were solemnly repeated by Tim and O’Calla- 
ghan, and then Nelly hurried away, followed to the door 
by Edward, who would have the last word and the last 
look at parting. 

As for Tom Reilly, that evening was an epoch in his 
existence. In his capacity of groomsman he had to play 
a conspicuous part, under the eyes of his beloved mother. 
And he certainly made a creditable appearance in a 
handsome new suit of fine black cloth, relieved by a white 
vest, wliite kid gloves and the whitest of white linen, 
“done up” for the occasion by his mother’s own .care- 
ful hands. Poor Tom never intended to have 'a wedding 


MR. HENRY T. BLAKE. 


243 


of his own — at least, as long as his mother lived, for he 
could not bear to give her a rival in her household 
dignity, so he always looked back on Edward’s wedding 
as the oasis in the desert of his monotonous life. Like 
“ the hallowed form ” of which Moore sweetly sings, so 
was that happy day imprinted on Tom Reilly’s mind in 
fancy’s brightest tints, and for years and years did it 

“lingering haunt the greenest spot 

On memory’s waste.” 

Now, that Edward^ Flanagan’s wedding is over, we 
must turn our attention to Mr. Henry T. Blake, who has 
long since got over the giddy whirl of the honey-moon, 
and settled down into a common-place Benedict — not a 
very sober one, I confess, but still a pretty fair .specimen 
of young married men, in the great cities of the Union. 
Now, that Jane was secured, love gave place to ambition, 
and, as the surest ladder to preferment, Blake began to 
feel a craving desire for 'popularity. He was gifted by 
nature with a handsome jierson ; education and society 
had given him a good address, and these were two great 
elements of popularity. 

The field of politics lay open before him, and ^he 
entered the lists with the determination to win a death- 
less name and mount to preferment on tlie shoulders 
of the people. He had grown up in the Democratic 
ranks ; it cost him but little trouble to attain a distin- 
guished position in the party, and he was soon acknow- 
ledged as one of its leaders. He had a ready flow of 
words that passed for eloquence, and his voice often 
made the walls and floors of Old Tammany quiver, if not 
by its own proper force, at least by the vociferous ])lau- 
dits of “ the b’hoys,” with whom Henry T. Blake was a 


244 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


special favorite. Repeal meetings were at that time 
“ all the go,” and Blake, as the son of an Irishman, had 
a good opportunity to rail against Britisli tyranny, &c. 
Wasliington Hall (now Stewart’s — the leviathan of fancy 
stores), was the scene of many an enthusiastic demonstra- 
tion, and there it was that our friend Blake made his 
first appearance as an out-and-out Repealer. 

“ Come along,” said he to Zachary Thomson, “ let us 
see what’s going on amongst the Repealers. It will be 
a capital move for us to come out strongly in favor of 
Repeal.” 

“ I can’t think so, Henry,” returned Zach, ' with char- 
acteristic bluntness, ‘‘ what have we to do with Repeal ?” 

“Not much with Repeal, if you will, but a great deal 
with our Irish citizens.^^ There was a sneer on his lip that 
made Zachary smile. “ Don’t you know that they are, 
to a man, Repealers ? If you can secure their votes at 
any given time to be hereafter specified, by attending a 
few Repeal meetings, and spouting for half an hour or so, 
I think it will be well worth our while. Do you under- 
stand me now ?” 

“I do perfectly,” said Zachary, with a smile. “You 
would attend Repeal meetings and make speeches there on 
the same principle that you became a freemason — for the 
greater advancement of Henry T. Blake, ditto myself, for 
Zachary Thomson ?” 

“ Exactly so. Have you yet made up your mind 
whether to go or stay—* to go or not to go that is the 
questiop ?” 

“ I go,” said Zachary, in a tone of much solemnity, 
whereupon the two worthies sallied forth, laughing heartily 
at the pseudo-heroic parts they were about to take in the 
evening’s drama. 


A POI, ITICAL SPEECH. 


245 


“ Xow, mind,” said Henry, “ I will first make a sj 3 eech 
and do my best to win the ear of the court, then 1 will 
gracefully introduce you as an American friend, who is 
well-disposed towards Ireland. I will then leave you in 
possession of the stage, and the audience, thus prepared, 
will be all your own — ‘ you can shape them as the ])Otler 
shapes his clay.”^ Zachary laughed and said “ All right.” 

On reaching the Hall, situated on Broadway, they 
found it densely crowded with the “ friends of Ireland,” 
so that they had considerable difficulty in reaching the 
platform occupied by the speakers. Having exchanged 
nods with the Chairman, who was well known to them, 
the iwo young men applied themselves to watch the pro- 
ceedings. Henry had taken care to apprise the Chairman 
that he purposed making some remarks, and that func- 
tionary availed himself of the first opportunity to present 
to the meeting “ Mr. Henry T. Blake, already known to 
you all as a distinguished member of the bar — his senti- 
ments on the Repeal question he will himself explain.” 
The announcement was received with loud cheers, and 
Mr. Blake’s appearance was the signal for still louder 
applause. Bowing gracefully and gratefully, Mr. Blake 
opened his mouth and spoke. He began by saying — that 
he had not the honor of being born in Ireland, but he 
was proud to say, that both his father and mother were 
natives of the Emerald Isle. (Applause.) He had, from 
his earliest years, loved the name of Ireland — it was one 
of the first sounds his infant lips had articulated. His 
love of Ireland had grown with his growth, and strength- 
ened with his strength, until it had become a part of his 
very being. To love Ireland, and to hate the tyrannical 
power that ground her to the dust, was to him a sacred 
a two-fold duty. (Loud cheers.) He had come there 


246 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


that evening to offer his fortune, and his life, if necessary, 
in the glorious cause to wliich they were all devoted. 
(Great sensation.) He would not further occupy the 
valuable time of the meeting, but in conclusion begged to 
introduce his friend, Mr. Zachary Thomson, a distinguish- 
ed member of his own profession, and an ardent lover of 
Ireland, although born of American parents. He could 
answer for him that his heart was in the right place. 

Mr. Thomson was received with enthusiastic cheering, 
which having at length subsided, he proceeded to thank 
the meeting for their truly Irish welcome, thus freely given 
to a stranger. He then went on with a brilliant speech, 
expressive of all manner of good will towards Ireland, 
and a corresponding indignation against her oppressor — 
a nation otherwise deserving of all respect. Although he 
could not, like his friend, boast of having Irish blood in 
his veins, yet he could say, and must be allowed to say, 
that his sympathy for that lovely but unfortunate land, 
was as deep as though he were born on Irish ground. 
(Loud and prolonged applause.) What man, Muth even 
half a soul, could turn over the eventful page of Ireland’s 
history, without feeling for her unmerited sufferings ? 
He, for one, would cheerfuly gird on diis sword at 
any moment that he might be called on, and go up to 
battle for oppressed Ireland. (Tremendous cheers. ) Mr. 
Thomson concluded by saying that he hoped they would 
all live to see the day when the down-trodden peoples 
of the Old World would simultaneously shake off the 
incubus of tyrannical governments, and stand forth in ren- 
ovated beauty, the succe.ssful imitators of Young America. 
Mr. Thomson then made his bow, and retired in graceful 
confusion. 

It is needless to say that the two friends were loudly 


REPEAL AND THE OPERA. 


241 


cheered as they left the Hall. When they had got to a 
safe distance, they both laughed immoderately at what 
they called “ a capital farce.” 

“ Don’t you think 1 did my part to perfection ?” in- 
quired Blake. 

“To the very life,” cried Zachary — “and I — do not 
I deserve a compliment, too ?” 

“ Oh ! decidedly — that touch about the sword was most 
effective ; it told well, I assure you. A few more such 
speeches as we have made to-night, and we are sure of 
the Irish vote, whenever it suits us to apply for it.” 

“ That is all very well,” said Zachary, “ but I am sadly 
afraid that Jane and Eliza will have given us up for lost. 
You know they were to be dressed for the Opera at nine 
o’clock, and here it is now- a quarter past nine. Repeal 
is all very well in its place, but I have no notion of letting 
it interfere with any more rational amusement. _Hang 
Repeal, say I, if it keeps the girls so long waiting.” 

“ Nonsense, Zachary, they can well wait a quarter 
of an hour, when we are detained by important business.” * 
The last words were spoken with such an ironical em- 
phasis that Zachary could not help laughing. Good 
humor thus restored, our two “ friends of Ireland” puffed 
away at their cigars with renewed vigor, and quickened 
their steps accordingly. On reaching home, they found 
Mrs. Henry and Miss Blake, and the Misses Thomson 
waiting in full dress, with more or less discontent written 
on the face of each. “Ireland and Repeal,” were deris- 
ively brought forward by the gentlemen in excuse, and 
laughingly accepted by the ladies. 

This picture may seem somewhat overdrawn, but, 
unhappily, it is “ ower true.” Of those who headed the 
Repeal movement in America, it is morally certain that 


248 


BLAKKS AND FLANAGANS. 


some were actuated by just such motives as our friends 
Blake and Thomson. The thousands of Irishmen who 
“ made up the rank and file ” were, of course, sincere in 
their enthusiastic efforts to better the condition of their 
own beloved Ireland ; but it is certain that many of the 
leaders were just such as they are here represented, spout- 
ing patriotism from their mouths, while their hearts were 
full of petty selfish projects. Even now, it were well if 
our warm-hearted, trusting people would carefully sift the 
tares from the wheat, and withhold their confidence from 
public men, or would-be tribunes, till they ha\e ascertain- 
ed “ what manner of men they be.” Let them keep a 
sharp eye on the sfouUrs wherever they may appear, or 
what garb soever they may choose to assume. 


THE SCHOOL Q U E S T I 0 If . 


219 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE SCHOOL QUESTION TURNS UP AGAIN — RETRIBUTIVE 
JUSTICE. 

About the same time that Mr. Henry T. Blake was 
giving his attention to Repeal, there arose, in the very 
heart of New York, another agitation on a question of 
vital importance to the Catholic body. This was the 
School Question. The evils which I have faintly and 
imperfectly sketched in my opening chapters as growing 
out of the iniquitous propagandisra of the Common 
Schools, had continued to increase in magnitude with 
every passing year, until it was found absolutely neces- 
sary to keep Catholic children, at any cost, from being 
exposed to their pestiferous influence. Fortunately for 
the young Church of New York. God had placed it a 
few years before under the guidance of a prelate, whose 
indomitable energy and singular prudence gave weight 
and effect to his other rare qualities. To his penetrating 
eye, the pit prepared for the faith and morals of his people 
was clearly discernible, and for years long he bent all the 
energies of his vigorous mind to save the Catholics of the 
United States, and of New York in particular, from tlie 
fearful abyss opened beneath their feet, by the jpatenial 
ll* 


250 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


kindness of the State. “The year 1841,” says the his- 
torian of Catholicity in New York, “ was made famous, 
in New York, by the agitation of the ‘ School Question,’ 
as it was called. Previous to that time, tlie public 
instruction had been in the hands of a close corporation, 
under the title of the Public School Society, which admi- 
nistered and distributed, according to its own good plea- 
sure, the funds provided by the city for the purpose of 
education. The books used in these schools abounded 
with the usual stereotyped falselioods against the Catlio- 
lic religion, and the most vexatious and open system of 
proselytism was carried on in them. The evil became, 
finally, so great, that no alternative was left for Catholic 
parents, but, either to pi-event their children from attend- 
ing the Schools at all, or to cause an entire change to be 
made in the system. Under the advice and active leader- 
ship of the Bishop, a systematic attempt was made to 
call the attention of the community and the public 
authorities to the subject ; and, after a severe cotitest, 
it resulted in the establishment of the present Common 
School system. . . . Experience has sitice shown, how- 
ever, that the new system, though administered with as 
much impartiality and fairness as could be expected 
under the circumstances, is one, which, as excluding all 
religious instruction, is most fatal to the morals and 
religious principles of our cliildren, and makes it evident 
that our only resource is to establish scliools of our own, 
where sound religious knowledge shall he imparted at 
the same time with secular instruction.”* 

Yet, even this Common School system, objectionable 
as it still is, is unquestionably an improvement on the 

* Right Rev. Dr. Bayley’s Uistory of the Catholic Church, on the Island 
of New York, pp. 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION. 251 

system by which it was preceded. What, then, must it 
have been ? — what a nursery for young Catholics ? The 
Public School Society, mentioned in the above para- 
graph, was, to all intents and purposes, a close corpora- 
tion, and exclusively anti-Catholic. When one of its 
members died and went “ to his appointed place,” ano- 
ther was elected in his stead by the members themselves. 
Thus, ‘ the whole management of the schools, funds, 
teachers and all, was in the hands of this corporation, 
and an evil job they made of it, as the Church could 
sadly testify. Many and many a Hugh Dillon was 
turned out on society from the classes of the Public 
Schools, and not a few of their Henry T. Blakes mounted 
to fame and honor on the ruins of those religious princi- 
ples instilled into them in childhood by Catholic mothers. 

In the struggle so long carried on between the Bishop, 
on the one hand, and the dogged spirit of fanaticism, 
leagued with infidelity, on the other, it is a well-known 
fact that some who still called themselves Catholics were 
actively opposed to the great champion of Catholicity. 
Amongst these was our friend Henry T. Blake. What- 
ever influence he had in the Democratic party was all 
thrown into the scale in favor of the Common Schools. 
It was his boast that he had received a great part of his 
education in those very schools, and he thought there was 
no Catholic parent who might not send his children 
there with safety as well as profit. He was opposed to 
separate schools on principle, because the effect of such 
education was to contract the mind within the narrow 
limits of an antiquated bigotry, unworthy of the glorious 
nineteenth century. 

These sentiments Mr. Henry T. Blake propounded in 
broad daylight, at a meeting held in Tammany Hall, for 


252 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


the express purpose of condemning the course pursued 
by the Bishop, as the head of the Catholic party. On 
that memorable oecasion, Mr. Blake was vociferously 
called for by “the b’hoys,” and could hardly get put- 
ting in a word for several minutes, till the steam was 
“ blown oflf.’^ Then Mr. Bla^e commenced with his 
lowest and longest bow, thanked the meeting for the 
cordial reception given him, and declared that it should 
ever be his highest aim to merit a continuance of their 
approbation. They had come together that day, he said, 
on a great question, a question wliich involved the well- 
being and prosperity of the great Republic. He, for one, 
felt deeply grateful to that venerable body, the Public 
School Society, for their unparalleled exertions in the 
cause of education, and he rejoiced to have that opportu- 
nity of bearing public testimony to the excellence of the 
schools over which that body presided. Some individuals 
there might be who opposed those schools through a nar- 
row feeling of bigotry, and, he thought he might add, of 
fanaticism, but, in the breasts of free-born Americans, no 
such feeling could ever find a resting-place. He was a 
Catholic himself, and yet he was educated, for the most 
part, in a Ward School. (A voice : “You’re a credit 
to the Ward School, Mr. Blake !”) He could, therefore, 
prove from experience that boys might grow up Catho- 
lics, and good Catholics, at the Common Schools. 
(Another voice: “Yes, such Catholics as you are, — to 
be sure they might I”) Mr. Blake suddenly stood still. 
He said he could go no further, unless those ill-mannered 
individuals who thus disturbed the meeting were at once 
expelled. A scene of indescribable confusion followed, 
during which it appeared that there was quite a number 
of the “ill-mannered individuals,” and, moreover, that 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION. 


253 


they did not choose to be expelled. Some called out for 
Mr. Blake to continue, others hooted and iiissed, and 
cried “ shame I shame !” On the whole, Mr. Henry T. 
Blake thought it most prudent to retire, and leave the 
field to some other common-sclioolmnn. 

On the following evening Tim Flanagan dropt into 
Miles Blake’s, hoping, like Paul Pry, that he didn’t 
intrude. Oh ! no, on the contrary, nothing could be 
more acceptable than his visit. 

“ In that case,” said Tim, “ I’ll make myself comfort- 
able.” So he established himself in an arm-chair near 
the fire, which blazed up merrily in the grate, as though 
rejoicing in the genial presence of a man with a real 
heart. 

“ Where is Eliza from you ?” said Tim ; “ I hav’n’t seen 
her this many a day.” 

“ Oh I she’s over at Henry’s,” replied Mrs. Blake. 
“ She spends most of her time there.” 

‘‘Humph ! I suppose so ! — Well, Miles ! I see by the 
papers this morning that Henry made a great speech at 
the meeting in Tammany Hall last night. He’s coming 
out strong against the Bishop.” 

“ So I see,” said Miles, and he began to stir up the 
fire at a great rate.* “ He has got into a bad set some- 
how or another.’.’ 

“ I never knew him to be in anything else,” said Tim, 
coolly. “ I wish to goodness he’d come out like a man, 
and decjare himself a Protestant.” 

“ There’s not much fear of him doing that,” said Miles, 
warmly. 

“ I don’t know that, Miles ! — he has a Protestant wife, 
and he keeps none but Protestant company, and, depend 
upon it, he has a Protestant heart — if he hadn’t he could 


254 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


never have the face to come out openly against the 
Bishop as he does I’^ 

“ Well, but the Bishop goes too far — he objects to 
every system of education tluit leaves out religion — I 
suppose he’ll be for getting up Catholic schools all over, 
and commanding the people to send their cliildren to no 
other I” 

“And if he did,” says Tim, “isn’t it just what he 
ought to do ? Now, I ask you. Miles Blake, on the 
word of an honest man, are yow as much in favor of the 
Common Schools as you were ten years ago ? Come, 
now — yes, or no ?” 

“ Well, I can’t say I am altogether as favorable to 
them, but still I don’t go so far in condemniug them as 
the Bishop does.” 

“ Now, Miles Blake, just listen to me I” said Tim, and 
he drew his chair nearer Blake. “ You often told me in 
former times that Harry would grow up as good a 
Catholic as any of my boys, though he wan educated by 
Protestants. Answer me, now — and mind, there’s no 
shirking the question I — do you thiuk Mr. Henry T. 
Blake is as good a Catholic as Edward Flanagan ?” 

“Well I perhaps not quite so pious and all that, but 
still he is a Catholic — he has never apostatized !” 

“ Do you think he is as good a son as Edward Flana- 
gan or John ?” proceeded Tim, heedless of Miles’s con- 
cluding word^ 

Mrs. Blake burst into tears, and Miles used his pocket 
handkerchief, protracting the operation much longer than 
was necessary. 

“ Ah! Tim, dear, there’s no use in asking that question,” 
said his sister ; “ you know how that matter stands as 
well as we do !” 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION. 


255 


I do,’’ said Tim, “ and what’s worse, every one knows 
it, so I needn’t say a word about it. Kow, you know 
very well, on the other hand, that my children are as 
good children as ever broke bread. How does it happen 
that my children are such good Catholics, and such 
loving, dutiful children, while yours are Catholics only in 
name — don’t be angry. Miles ! — and, to say the least of 
it, very indifferent children ? How can you account for 
the difference ? Before you answer me, think of Hugh 
Dillon, who wouldn’t even attend his father’s funeral 
because we buried him in a Catholic burying-ground. 
There must be some cause for all this. And you know 
very well that these cases on both sides are only instan- 
ces of what we see going on all round us ?” 

“Yes,’’ said Miles, angrily, “you’re just getting back 
on the old story that kept us in hot water years and 
years ago. Your crows were always the whitest, you 
know !”' 

“Well!” said Tim, “I’m only sorry, for your sake, 
that your crows are not whiter — that’s all. Even your- 
self can’t make them out white now ! The Common 
Schools have done for you, anyhow ! Of all men in the 
city, you can never hold up your head and say a word in 
their favor.” 

“ Can’t I, indeed ?” said Miles, doggedly. 

“ No, Miles, you cannot ! — if you did, every Catholic 
father or mother might laugh you to scorn. Deny it as 
you will, you have made an infidel of your son — a stylish 
fine lady of your daughter, and both look down on you 
and your poor wife with contempt. Rich as you are. 
Miles Blake, I wouldn’t be in your place this very night 
— no, indeed, I’d rather be a tenaut-at-will over on 
Ward’s Island I If a son of mine had stood up at a 


256 . 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


meeting like that of last night, and denounced his 
good Bishop for simply doing his duty, I could never 
look any one in the face after it. God knows 1 could 
not.’’ 

Miles looked as though he would fain laugh, but laugh 
he could not. His own conscience echoed Tim’s words, 
and he could not treat them as a joke. His only 
resource was to wax wroth, and make a show of resent- 
ing Tim’s freedom. “ You’re a hard-hearted, unfeeling 
man, Tim Flanagan — that’s what you are, or you 
wouldn’t come into my own house, and tell me such a 
thing to my very face.” 

“As to my being hard-hearted,” observed Tim, “that’s 
a charge nobody ever brought against me before— at 
least to my knowledge, and X don’t value it much from 
you, because I know I never deserved it from you. But 
you know in your heart I’m saying what’s true. Still, 
perhaps, I’m wrong in reminding you of your misfortunes 
when it’s too late to remedy them. All you can do now, 
either of you, is to leave your children in the hai»ds of 
God, and put them under the protection of the Blessed 
Virgin — though it’s little respect they have for her them- 
selves !” he added, by way of soliloquy. “ But tell me 
one thing, now ! — what’s the reason you don’t come to 
our house oftener than you do ? — many a pleasant even- 
ing we have of it with Edward and his wife, and Mr. 
O’Callaghan. They either come to us, or we go to them 
nearly every evening. Can’t you come sometimes when 
you’re sitting here looking at each other, and fretting 
about what can’t be cured ?” 

Mrs. Blake looked anxiously at her husband. “ Well! 
I’ll tell you what, Tim,” said Miles, after a short pause, 
“ we will begin and go to you oftener — God knows we 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION. 


257 


want a little amusement now and then ! — if you’ll only 
promise to come here in your turn.” 

“ What !” cried Tim, who could never resist the temp- 
tation of cracking a joke. “ What ! Sheridans, and 
Reilly’s and all ?” 

“ Yes, by George ! the whole set — Mary and I have 
pleased the youngsters too long in choosing company 
Now we’ll choose our own again.” 

“ All right,” said Tim, aloud ; but in his own mind he 
enjoyed the sly joke which he did not choose to put 
into words. “No thanks to you now when you can’t 
help it. When your own children turned their backs on 
you, welcome Flanagans, Reilly’s and Sheridans — better 
old friends, Irish though they are, than none at all !’’ 

Mrs. Blake was quite pleased at the arrangement, and 
Tim had to take a tumbler of punch on the head of it, 
before he could get away. 

Now let us return to the meeting at tvhich Mr. Henry 
T. Blake made himself so conspicuous. It so happened 
that Zachary was unable to attend, owdug to some pre- 
vious arrangement for the evening. Henry was, therefore, 
going home alone, when, on the wmy, he was accosted by 
a person whom he at once recognized as Hugh Dillon. 
Blake involuntarily quickened his pace, but so did Dillon, 
too. They were still side by side. 

“ That was a great speech you made,” said Dillon. 
“I guess you’re about tired of passing for a Papist. 
Why not come out at once like a man, and say you don’t 
care a d — n for priest or bishop ! That’s otv way, Blake, 
and you’d get along better if it w^ere yours, too. We 
“free-born Americans,” as you justly called us, ha\e no 
notion of such shilly-shally w'ork. You must be either 
for or against us — that’s the chat — d’ye take, old feller ?” 


258 >BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

Henry was by no means pleased with the ruffianly 
lainiliarity of the other, but he knew it was hardly safe 
to resent it. “ You are very kind, Mr. Dillon,” he began, 
but Dillon interrupted him with a hoarse laugh. 

' “None of your fine lingo to me, Blake. Folks never 
think of calling me mister. Such nonsense don’t suit me ; 
I hate titles as I hate hell I We were schoolmates once, 
Harry Blake, and I rather liked you then, although you 
did busy yourself too much about religion. You’ve got 
over all that, though,” he added, with a diabolical leer, 
“ and I own to a sort of a liking for you. Didn’t you 
see me at the meeting to-night ?” 

“ I can’t say I did.” 

“You can’t say! Well, more shame for you. I 
brought some of our ‘ b’hoys ’ there, just to give you a 
rousing cheer. You can’t say, indeed ! I guess I was 
near enough to you, then, just right in front of the stage. 
If it hadn’t, been for us, those rascally Irish, who went 
there out of spite, would have hissed you off the stage. 
But we shouted louder than they did. Ha ! ha 1 ha 1 
You see I don’t forget old times ; eh, old feller ?” 

“ I am much obliged to you, Dillon. I had no idea 
you had so good a memory !” 

You hadn’t eh ? well, I remember a thing or two as 
well as most men. Do you remember Sam Herrick — eh, 
Harry ?” 

Blake answered in the affirmative. “ You do, eh ? 
well, he was at the meeting to-night, though I guess you 
didn’t see him either, and if he ain’t hoarse after all he 
cheered, then his throat must be made of leather — that’s 
all. Sam’s a brick, and nothing else. Many a jolly good 
piece of fun we’ve had together. But I guess you gentle- 
men,^’ laying a sneering emphasis on the word, “ are not 


THE SCHOOL QUESTION. 


259 


over-burdened with memory I Still, I don’t want to find 
fault with you, Harry Blake, for you’re making a real 
bold stand against the priests. Go it like a man, like a 
free-born citizen, and you may count ou us. We’ll stand 
to you through thick and thin. I see you’re near home 
so ril only give you a parting advice. Come out at once 
from among the Papists — no more cant or humbug — you’re 
doing our work — come over to us at once, then ; no use 
straddling the fence. The Papists ain’t half so strong as 
we are ; so if you want to get along swimmingly, turn 
your back on what they call religion — never say you are 
a Catholic, for it looks mean ; and you know the Catho- 
lics won’t own to you while you go against their Bishop 
with his old crotchety notions. Be a man, Harry — you’re 
within a step of it !— hang it, don’t stop short when 
you’ve got so far I” and he slapped him on the shoulder 
with a force that made Henry quiver. 

‘‘ Thank you — thank you, Dillon ! I will consider 
what you. say ! good-night.” 

“ Good night, old feller, good night ! give me a shake 
of your pounder ! — That’s the cut ! you and I owe the 
Common Schools too much to turn our backs on them 
when they’re attacked by tyrannical priests or bishops — 
eh, Harry, my boy ? A friend in need is a friend indeed 
—ain’t he ?” 

“ Very true, Dillon, very true !” said Blake, as he rang 
the bell at his own door with very unusual haste. “We 
must sustain them at any cost !” 

“ Sustain them ! yes, I guess we must ! Pd lose my 
life for them I I would !” 

These were the last words Blake heard as he closed 
the door. He had all along feared that Dillon might in- 
vite himself into the house, and was much relieved when 


260 


BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 


that patriotic individual »valked away, with these ominous 
words on liis lips. 

All that eveiiin(>^ Henry Blake felt an unaccountable 
depression of spirits. In vain did Jane and Eliza put 
forth all their talents to amuse him. Music had no charms 
to soothe his mind, and do what he would he could not 
converse with his usual ease or cheerfulness. At last 
Jane began to pout. She was just then in an interesting 
situation, and thought herself entitled to an extra share 
of attention, which, to say the truth, Henry was usually 
quite willing to give. 

“ Why, 1 declare, Henry, you are quite stupid to-night I 
what on earth ails you ? ^ 

“ Nothing particular, Jane,” said Henry, with a forced 
smile. “ Do 1 not look as well as usual ?” 

“ Look ! why, you just look and act like an old dried- 
up mummy !” 

Harry and Eliza both laughed at the odd similitude. 
“ I wasn’t aware, my dear Jane, that mummies either 
looked or acted ; but let that pass. I must try and 
make ‘Richard himself again.’ for your sake at least.” 

“ Well ! but I want* to know what vexed you out of 
doors,” persisted Jane. 

“ Did the meeting go off well ?” inquired Eliza, who 
had been thinking more than she said. 

“ Very well, indeed, Eliza. To tell you the truth, my 
dear girls, it was that fellow, Dillon, that threw a damper 
on my spirits. He accosted me soon after I left the Hall, 
a)id would keep up with me all the way home. He is 
certainly a low ruffian, and the whole tenor of his conver- 
sation was highly offensive to me, though 1 believe he 
meant to be quite friendly. But familiarity from a fellow 
like that is at all times disgusting, to me, at least. 1 con- 


NEW YEARNS EVE. 


261 


fess I am not democrat enough to place myself on a level 
with such rowdies, even for the sake of popularity.” 

“ Oh ! if that be all,” said Jane, laughing, “ 1 do not 
pity you much. If you want to use such fellows you 
must pay the penalty — so I often heard father say. They 
will not serve you at the polls unless you come down from 
your dignity so as to suit their taste. If it be only Hugh 
Dillon’s over-familiarity that troubles you, we won’t take 
that as an excuse. Here’s Zachary coming, I declare, so 
no more dullness for this evening.” 

Still Henry could not forget Dillon’s parting words. 
Not that he attached any particular signification to them, 
or that they excited any new ideas in his mind, but they 
seemed to haunt him, as it were, and kept ever ringing in 
his ears like a funeral bell. “ Confound the fellow,” said 
he to himself, “ I wish he hadn’t come in my way — that 
deep husky voice of liis seems to have found an echo in 
my ear.” Poor Henry ! would that it might awaken your 
slumbering conscience ! 

Henry Blake and Hugh Dillon met no more on earth. 

Following the thread of our story, we must now pass 
over some weeks, at the same time craving the reader’s 
pardon if the scenes which we are about to visit are not 
precisely to his or her liking. It was New Year’s Eve, 
and the whole city of New York was in joyous prepara- 
tion for the coming festival. This was all very well, so 
long as the general hilarity was kept within proper 
bounds ; but, unfortunately, this wms not everywhere the 
case. There is a certain class of men in every city who 
cannot or will not rest satisfied with. the ordinary amuse- 
ments ^of civic festivals, but must launch out on the wild 
ocean of licentious indulgence, overleaping every barrier 
that might oppose their progress, whether it be law. 


262 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


decency, or common feeling. Such gentry are in New 
York distinguished as “the b’hoys.” It so happened tliat 
on this particular New Year’s Eve, a considerable num- 
ber of these rowdies took it into their heads to “ have a 
good time,” which laudable project they executed by pay- 
ing a visit en masse to all the taverns, confectionaries, and 
cook-shops within a circuit of several streets, glutting 
themselves with everything they could eat or drink, and 
then telling the landlord or landlady, as the case might 

be, “ to go be d d,” or some such polite injunction, 

that is, if they ventured to hint anything about payment. 
In some places, the party ended their carousal by smash- 
ing their glasses in token of independence, threatening 
to break the owner’s head if he attempted to remonstrate. 
Centre, Mulberry, Elizabeth, Grand and Broome streets, 
were especially favored by the visits of these marauders. 
Even the stalls of fruit and cake venders along the streets 
were rifled, and their owners kicked out of the way. One 
poor old Irishwoman had her little covered stall broken 
to pieces, her cakes and apples consigned to the pockets 
of the rowdies (for their stomachs were at last “ done 
up”), and her handful of coppers, the proceeds of the day’s 
sale, appropriated before her eyes by the leader of the 
gang, who coolly placed it in his vest pocket, saying it 
might be useful. In vain did the poor old body beseech 
them over and over not to “ ruin her out an’ out ” — it 

was no use, they only cursed her for “ a d d Irish 

beggar,” and told her to be very thankful that they didn’t 
knock her head against the wall. 

“ Well ! the Lord be praised !” said the old woman to 
herself, as she stood alternately looking after the depre- 
dators, and eyeing the shattered remains of her little 
property. “ Well I the Lord be praised I if that’s what 


THE “b’hOYS” 0,N a SPREE. 263 

they call American freedom, I’d rather have the slavery 
we had at home. I’d be many a day an’ year selliu’ 
apples in poor ould Ireland before anybody ’id use me 
that way. Och I cch ! but it’s the quare country all 
out ; where fellows like them can ride roughshod over 
decent, quiet people, that’s mindin’ their business an’ 
nothing else ! An’ to think of that blackguard Dillon— 
oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what is he goin’ to turn to — every 
day an’ every hour he’s gettin’ deeper an’ deeper into the 
mire ! Sure enough, God has great patience to let him 
run so long ! But God pity mt ! what am I to do now, 
at all, at all ?” 

Little did poor Molly, our old acquaintance, think, 
when she gave vent to this sad soliloquy, that the repro- 
bate’s race was already run — that the divine patience of 
which she spoke was at length exhausted, as far as he 
was concerned. Molly had latterly taken up her siand 
at the corner of Grand street and the Bowery, and when 
“the b’hoys” gallantly demolished “ every stick of it,’’ 
they next proceeded to pay their respects at a German 
tavern in Elizabeth street. Aow it so happened that 
there was a ball in the house on that night, and the Ger- 
mans had no mind to admit such visitors into their social 
circle. They accordingly resisted their entrance. This 
roused the ire of the rowdies, who immediately went off 
to recruit, and very soon returned with a strong reinforce- 
ment. They at once besieged the house with a shower 
of stones and every other missile that came to hand, 
shouting the most fearful imprecations and all manner of 
vengeful threats. But the Germans had carefully barri- 
caded the doors and windows, so that the only damage 
sustained by them consisted of glass. Not so the assail- 
ants ; the crash of shattered glass following their flrst 


264 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Folley was almost instantaneously answered by a discharo^e 
of fire-arms from within, a yell of anguish rung through 
the air, and the leader of the band fell heavily to the 
ground."^ Consternation and bodily fear took possession 
of his comrades. They fled in ail directions, leaving only 
a few, who, bolder than the rest, determined to wait and 
see whether their fallen chief was really dead. Turning 
him over, for he had fallen on his face, they saw at a 
glance that life was gone — the unhappy young man was 
shot through the head. “Is he dead asked one from 
behind. “ Dead cried another ; “ I guess he is — dead 
as a herring ! what are we going to do with him 

“ Why, take him home to be sure — he has got an aid 
mother, I think.” 

“ The deuce he has I — where does she hang up 

“ Can’t say !” 

“ I know where the old woman lives !” said one young 
fellow, coming forward ; it was Watty Sullivan ; “ come, 
give me a hand some of you till we take him home !” 

“ Oh I for God’s sake, don’t !” cried an agitated voice 
at his elbow. It was that of poor old Molly Reynolds, 
whose stall had been so lately demolished. “Don’t take 
him home dead to the poor heart-broken mother that he 
treated so badly in his life-time. It would be the death 
of her— -it would, indeed. No, no, bring him somewhere 
else, and God bless you I” 

“ Go to the d 1 1 you old hag I where can we bring 

him to if not to his mother ?” 

“ If there’s nowhere else,” said Molly, stoutly, “ you 

♦ This is a posUire fact. The son of Irish CathoFic parents— his mother, too, 
a widow— was shot some years ago in New York In the manner above described. 
The circumstance is, doubtless, within the recollection of many of my readers. 

I have merely altered the name. 


RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE. 


2G5 


can bring him to my little place down the alley here. I’ll 
get one or two of the neighbcr-women to stay with me, 
till we can break it to his mother. It’s a thing I don’t 
like to do, especially as he didn’t die a Christian death, 
but I’ll do it for God’s sake. Come on, I’ll show you 
the way 1” 



266 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER XYL 

THE BROKEN HEART — MRS. HENRY T. BLAKE ON BAPTISM. 

When Molly Reynolds saw the corpse safely deposited 
on the pallet in her little room, she went off to ask the 
assistance of her old cronies. It required all her influ- 
ence to induce any of them to go with her. If the 
man was a good Christian, they’d be willing to wash 
him and lay him out, but a haythen like that, they didn’t 
care to have anything to do with his carcass.” But 
Molly represented that let the poor soul be as it might, 
it was still an act of Christian charity to provide decent 
burial for the dead. This staggered some of the women 
— they couldn’t deny that anyhow, for they had heard it 
ever since they were able to hear anything. Still, they 
wavered ; their horror of the unsanctified dead was hard 
to overcome. But, when Molly went on to speak of the 
poor widowed mother, their hearts were softened, and 
four of them volunteered “ for the honor of God, and for 
the sake of the poor sorrowful-mother, that was always a 
dacent. God-fearing woman.” 

lyhen they all five went into ^^Jolly’s room, they knelt 


i 


.THE BROKEN HEART. 


26*1 


down and offered up a short prayer for the faithful 
departed — not for the miserable soul whose earthly com- 
panion lay stiff and stark before them, “ for, och ! och ! 
it would be little use to pray for the likes of him !” The 
first thing to be done was to cheer up the women with a 
good cup of tea, which Molly did without loss of time. 
Then the water was “put on” to wash the body, and 
while it was warming, Molly thought it the best thing to 
break the mournful tidings to the wretched mother. 

While their hostess was gone, the women sat around 
the stove, talking over the dreadful occurrence which 
had brought them together. Ever and anon they would 
cast a fearful glance towards tlie pallet whereon lay 
the dead body, carefully covered up. One gave it as 
her opinion, that they should go to work at once and 
wash the body, so as to get it over, but the others dis- 
sented, on the ground that it took three hours or so “ to 
cool the corpse.” 

“To tell the truth,” said the last speaker, “I have 
neither heart nor eye in the same job. He was an 
unlucky vagabond all his life, and died without the rites 
of the church.” 

“ Aud how else should- he die, Polly ?” demanded her 
next neighbor. “ Didn’t he just die the death that he 
deserved to die, and that everybody knew he would die ? 
Didn’t he turn his back on the father and mother that 
reared him ? — didn’t he disgrace everybody belongin’ to 
him ? an’ worse than all, didn’t he deny his religion, and 
i blaspheme God ? — didn’t he speak with disrespect of the 
j Blessed Mother of God whenever he had the chance — 
i faugh ! I’d as soon wash a dead dog ! Bat, no matter 
j for that ; we’ll do it, for the love of God, let it be as 
j it may I Somebody must do it. But, isn’t Molly stay- 


268 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

in’ long away from us ? — maybe Mrs. Dillon wasn’t in 
the house.” 

“ Whisht ! here they are ! — not a word now for your 
lives ! I wish to goodness we weren’t here at all, for it’ll 
be a heartbreaking sight I know well !” 

The door was slowly opened, very slowly, and Mrs. 
Dillon appeared, leaning on Molly’s arm. Not a tear 
was in her eye, but her face was ashy pale, and the only 
visible sympton of unusual emotion was a sort of asthma- 
tic breathing, or rather gasping. It was quite plain that 
she could hardly support herself, and, still, Molly kept 
encouraging her with, “ Come, now, Mrs. Dillon, dear I 
rouse yourself ! — we’re just at the end of our journey I 
Sit down, dear, an’ draw your breath a minute !” 

Mrs. Dillon mechanically obeyed ; her eye was fi.ved 
on the spot where the outlines of the dead body were 
but too plainly discernible under the clothes thrown there 
to hide it. A convulsive shudder crept over her ; her 
lips trembled and grew as white as her cheeks. She 
leaned back against the wall. Molly hung over her with 
the tenderest solicitude,' beseeching her to try and bear 
this heavy blow like a good Christian, as she always was. 
The afflicted mother looked up at the speaker with a 
vacant stare ; she shook her head, and pressed her hand 
on her heart, as if to stop its troublesome fluttering. 
Molly understood the mute answer, and her tears attested 
the depth of her sympathy. There was not a dry eye 
in the room, except Mrs. Dillon’s own. She made two 
attempts to rise, before she could succeed in gaining her 
feet. Then she made a move towards the pallet. Molly, 
seeing her intention, begged of her to wait a little longer, 
“till she’d be rested after her walk. She was too weak 
to stand such a sight I” 


k 


THE BROKEN HEART. 


269 


No. no, she was strong enough — as strong as ever slic 
expected to be in this world. She wanted to see her 
son — her son— why shouldn’t she see him ? 

“ Well, well, dear ! have your own way ; but, och I 
Mrs. Dillon, dear 1 don’t be frightened ; don’t look so, 
for the love of God, don’t !” 

With a trembling liand, Mrs. Dillon removed the cov- 
ering from otf the body, and there she stood face to face 
with the dead — with all that remained of her wretched 
son. There he lay weltering in his blood, his eyes wide 
open, and the dark scowl of hatred and revenge still low- 
ering on his brow. The women covered their eyes in 
horror, but the poor mother stood her ground. Gradu- 
ally she sunk to a kneeling posture, and her head fell 
heavily on her bosom. After a pause of awful silence, 
she was heard to whisper, “ He was good once, an’ sure 
we all loved him. God knows we did — and he loved us, 
too — didn’t you, Hugh — didn’t you, my son ? och ! och ! 
not a word, not a word to his poor old niotlier. But, 
sure — sure you’re not dead, Hugh ? — sure you’re not ? — • 
och ! won’t you speak to me, just one word ; only say 
you’re not dead, an’ I’ll run for the priest myself ! I 
will, Hugh, dear ! an’ you’ll make your peace with God 
befpre you leave this world ! Oh ! Hugh ! Hugh ! speak 
to me ; you can’t be dead ; God will have mercy on your 
poor soul ! not a word ! Oh ! Blessed Mother of God ! 
Sweet Yirgin ! is there no hope for my poor boy ! is he 
to be lost, lost, lost ! Oh ! didn’t I often tell you, my 
son, that this would be the end of it !’^ 

Molly here interposed, and would insist on removing 
her, declaring that she would kill herself if she went on 
so. “ It’s a sliarae for you, Mrs. Dillon, to fly in the face 
of God that way. A sensible woman like you ought to 


270 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


know better. Come over here near the stove, astorc 
machree! and turn your back tliis way.” 

“I’ll do anything you bid me, Molly,” said the poor 
heart-broken mother ; “ but what are you going to do 
with poor Hugh ? — Won’t we take him liome.T There 
was a sorrowful meaning in the last word, that made it 
difficult for the others to keep in their tears. 

“ Well ! just as you like, achorra. If you think well 
of it, we’ll get a cart an’ some of the men at once.” 

“ You know our Jerry has a cart,” said Polly, eagerly ; 
an’ I’ll go for him right off.” 

“ God bless you an’ do, then,” said Molly. Polly dis- 
appeared in an instant. “ Do you intend to wake him 
e’er a night, Mrs. Dillon dear ?” inquired Molly. 

“ I suppose so,” was the listless reply. “ I don’t much 
care — oh, Hugh ! Hugh I if you had only died a Chris- 
tian ?” she added with sudden energy ; “ I think I 
wouldn’t mind — I think I w^ouldu’t — oh. Lord ! oh, Loid ! 
is my son dead ? Molly ! Molly ! he can’t be dead — don’t 
tell me that he died in his sins, without a minute’s warn- 
ing ! — Oh I I couldn’t bear that — no, no, no !” 

Molly’s answer, whatever it might have been, was cut, 
short, or rather prevented, by the sound -of heavy feet 
on the stairway outside. “ It’s Jerry Dempsey with the 
cart,” observed one of the w’omen. But it was not. It 
was two Constables, sent to keep the body in statu quo, 
till the Coroner could hud it convenient to hold the 
inquest. 

“ Lord bless me I” said Molly ; “ we were forgettin’ 
all about the Coroner ; an’ how long will it be before he 
comes, if you please, sir ?” 

“ Can’t say, sometime to-morrow forenoon likely.” 

“ Couldn’t he be taken to his mother’s to-night ?” 


THE BROKEN HEART. 271 

! he must be left just where he is till after the 
inquest.’^ 

Mrs. Dillon bowed her head and covered her face with 
her hands, but said nothing. Jerry Dempsey came with 
his cart, and was dismissed by Molly with a request that 
he would come back next day when the Coroner was 
gone, which Jerry promised to do. The women who had 
assembled to wash and “ lay out ” the corpse, could not 
be persuaded to go away, although their services were 
not needed for the present. No, indeed, they would stay 
and keep Molly and poor Mrs. Dillon company. Little 
notice did the unfortunate mother take of any one during 
all that dismal night. In vain did Molly try to rouse 
her from her lethargy of woe by every little kindly 
stratagem. There she sat in her speechless, it would 
almost seem unconscious, misery (if misery could be 
unconscious), raising her eyes occasionally to heaven, 
and looking every now and then towards the motionless 
figure on the floor; then a more deadly pallor would over- 
spread her face; the same shudder would shake her whole 
frame, and she would clasp her hands still more tightly 
over her knees. The women were all awed into unusual 
silence by the dread presence of death, and such horri- 
fying death. The policemen smoked, and chatted, and 
even laughed, as though nothing strange had happened. 
Nor teas the occurrence strange to them : sudden and 
violent deaths were every day before their eyes, with all 
their direful accessories of grief and desolation. They 
began at one time to discuss certain notorious passages in 
the life of the deceased, which had brought him under 
the public eye in anything but a favorable light. Molly 
hastily interposed, and begged them for God’s sake to 
spare the poor heart-brol^eij mother. The men laughed. 


2T2 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ For God’s sake I — that was something new ; — they 
guessed they never did anything for God’s sake before — 
however, they wouldn’t wish to rake up old sores if it 
hurted anybody.” So Hugh’s edifying adventures were 
dropped for that time. 

Next morning brought the coroner and his jury. The 
inquest continued for two full hours, and when it was 
brought to a close, the public were gravely informed that 
“deceased had come to his death in consequence of a 
gun-shot fired by some person as yet unknown.” This 
was the sum of the official information, the fruit of two 
long hours’ careful investigation. Jerry Dempsey was 
in waiting with his cart, and the body was at length 
handed over to the desolate mother, and conveyed to her 
dwelling. Molly Reynolds brought her friends with her 
once more to perform the duties of charity, and the 
corpse was at last “laid out.” Watty Sullivan made 
his appearance, and applied himself with edifying dili- 
gence to comfort Hannah, whose grief was rather of the 
noisiest. Some of the women suggested that Father 
Power should be apprised of what had happened, but 
Hannah cut the matter short with a declaration that it 
was all nonsense to talk of bringing a priest there ; what 
on earth could he do for Hugh, now that he was dead ? 
These ominous words caught the mother’s grief-dulled 
ear. 

“ It would be no use, Hannah — you’re right enough — 
a priest could do him no good now, and besides, I’m sure 
Father Power wouldn’t come — my unfortunate son died 
as he lived, without the benefit of the clergy ! Oh ! my 
God ! my God I I thought poor John’s death was a 
heavy crush, but what was it to this ?” No one 
attempted to reply, and if they had, their words would 


THE BROKEN HEART. 


2‘r5 


have been unheeded, for Mrs. Dillon had fallen back into 
the torpor to which Hannah’s words had given a inoinen- 
tary suspension. 

After a while, the conversation turned on the funeral. 
Wliere was Hugh to be buried, and how was the funeral 
to be “got up?” Here Hannah and her adviser found 
their wits at fault. “ Ask the old woman!” said Watty, 
in a low voice. Hannah accordingly went over and 
shook her mother by the arm : “ mother ! 1 say, mother! 
what are we going to do for a funeral ?— won’t you go 
and ask Tim Flanagan to see after it ?” 

Her mother looked up at her with a bewildered 
stare, and Hannah found it necessary to repeat her ques- 
tion. 

“ No I” said Mrs. Dillon, with sudden emphasis ; “ no! 
I couldn’t have the face to ask a decent, respectable 
man like Tim Flanagan to invite people to Hugh Dillon’s 
funeral ! — no ! no !” 

“ Dear me ! and didn’t he get up a fine funeral for 
father?” 

“ True for you, Hannah, he did— but your unfortunate 
brother led a different life from what his father did — an’ 
och ! och ! he died a different death ! — his funeral doesn’t 
make much matter one way or the other.” 

“ Well ! leave it to me then,” interrupted Watty, with 
a sudden gush of feeling ; “ I'll go and hunt up some of 
the b’hoys. I guess we’ll not trouble your pious folk to 
bury Hugh — we can do it ourselves — eh, Hannah ! — 
don’t you think, if he had a choice, he’d rather have us 
carry him to the grave than a pack of hypocritical, pray- 
ing folk that he never cared a red cent for in his life- 
time ?” Hannah assented, with a fresh burst of clamo- 
rous weeping. All this time Molly Reynolds and two of 
12 ^ 


274 


BLAKE S AND FLANAGANS. 


her friends sat silent and sorrowful in a corner near the 
poor mourner, regarding her witli looks of tenderest com- 
passion, and occasionally olfcring her those little services 
which seemed to them useful or necessary. 

That same afternoon, about four o’clock, the mortal 
remains of Hugh Dillon were laid in a grave in the Pot- 
ter's Field. There was no possibility of getting permis- 
sion to inter him in consecrated ground, so his miserable 
mother had the crowning torture of seeing him consigned 
to unhallowed earth. He was followed to the grave by 
his mother and sister, Watty Sullivan, and some two 
dozen of his former associates, including Jim and Bill, 
already unfavorably known to the reader. 

As this dreary cavalcade paced slowlv along tlie 
crowded thoroughfare, it so happened that Henry Blake 
passed it by in an omnibus. His quick eye instantly 
recognized Mrs. Dillon as one of the mourners, and an 
icy chill ran through all his veins. Who could Mrs. Dil- 
lon be following to the grave as chief mourner ? He 
looked at the other assistants as they passed, or rather as 
he. passed, but Hugh was not there. Good God !’* he 
said to himself, “ can he be dead ? — and so soon ?” He 
thought of the last words he had heard him speak, and 
remembered the dreary presentiment whicli had haunted 
his mind all that night. He hastily stopped the omnibus, 
got out and inquired whose funeral that was. The answer 
was just what he had expected. All that day, and for 
many days after, Henry Blake was aa altered man. 
Conscience kept whispering her reproachful accents in the 
depth of his inmost heart, and do what he would he could 
not stifle that hissing voice so terribly distinct. But the 
noise and bustle of the world — the duties of his profes- 
sion, tlie chaimis of the opera and the theatre gradually 


BAPTISM . 


276 


drowned the troublesome voice, the ‘‘ still, small voice,” 
that is given us to salvation. A few days — a few weeks 
passed away, and Hugh Dillon’s untimely end was for- 
gotten, at least by Henry. His mind was occupied by 
new and pleasing cares. 

Just three weeks after the death of Hugh Dillon, Mrs. 
Henry T. Blake gave birth to a son, and great was the 
joy of the families on both sides. Mother and child were 
both in the way of doing w^ell. The third day arrived, 
and as there was no word of anything like baptism, Mrs. 
Blake, senior, ventured to throw out a suggestion that it 
was time to have the boy baptized. It was to Henry 
that his mother addressed herself, but Henry referred 
her to his wife. 

“ Now, really, Henry, I think yowmight give an answer 
without troubling me. You know as well as I do that I 
am not able to bear much fatigue as yet.” 

“Why, dear Jane,” observed her mother-in-law, “it 
will be no fatigue to you ; we can have the child bap- 
tized in one of the parlors below, so that you’ll neither 
see nor hear anything of it.” 

“ But I want to know what’s the use of hurrying so?” 
cried Jane, in a querulous tone ; “ won’t it just do as well 
to have it done when 1 am up and able to go about ?” 

Mrs. Blake looked at her son, who took good care that 
she should not meet his eye. There was a faint tinge of 
red on his cheek that might have been an incipient blush, 
but otherwise he manifested no embarrassment His 
mother was completely at a loss what to say : she had an 
instinctive fear of giving offence to her fine-lady daughter- 
in-law, and yet she was really anxious to have the infant 
baptized. Conscience dictated another appeal to the 
elumberiug faith of h&x sou. After her throat 


■ 2^6 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

once or twice, she once more opened her lips and 
spoke. 

“ Now, don^t you know very well, Henry, that baptism 
shouldn’t be put olf on any account ? how can you be 
answerable lo God and the Church to let your child be 
so long without being baptized ?” 

“ Oh I as to that,” interposed Mrs. Blake, junior, “ he 
can throw all the blame on me. The priests will hardly 
call either of us to account about the baptism of 
our own child. I’m sure,” she added, pettishly, it’s 
hard if we can’t have it done when and where we like I 
For my part, ma’am, I don’t believe in infant baptism 
at all. I was brought up in the Baptist faith, and am 
quite of opinion • still that it is much better, and 
more conformable to Scripture, to wait till the person 
becomes an adult, and is able to make the necessary 
responses.” ' 

“ But, Lord bless me ! Mrs. Henry, I thought you 
were going to be a Catholic. Henry was so sure of it, 
you see, that he made no bargain with you about what 
religion the children were to be brought up in.” 

“ I am really surprised to hear you talk so, ma’am, 
replied the daughter-in-law, with still increasing emphasis. 
“I’m sure I never told Henry tliat I had any thoughts 
of' changing my religion. Hid I, Henry ?” 

“Well ! I understood you to say, Jane, on one occa- 
sion, just a week or two before our marriage, that you 
had no particular objectioji to the Catholic religion, ar.d 
if you recollect, I observed at the same time that it would 
be very convenient if you could make up your mind to 
come to my church.” 

“ Oh ! that was all a joke — at least on my part. I 
never dreamed that you were in earnest in making such 


r 


THE BAPTISM DISCUSSION. 277 

a proposition, or else I should have settled the matter at 
once,” 

‘•Well 1 but seriously, Jane, I should like to have our 
boy baptized by a Catholic priest, if you would oblige me 
so far, as 1 know it would })lease my father and mother.” 

‘'And 1 know it would r/i^please father and mother,” 
was the quick reply ; “ don’t yon think ihtir feelings are 
to be considered, too ? 1 tell you, Henry, you may dc 

as you please with your own child ; but if you get a 
Romish — I mean a Catholic priest to baptize it, you and 
1 shan’t be friends — that’s all I have to say !” 

Henry looked distressed, and kept his head turned 
away from his mother, who looked from one to the other 
with an aiixious, troubled look. Whatever Henry was 
going to say, he was prevented by the nurse, who came 
forward in great trepidation to express her fears that 
Mrs. Henry was talking too much. This was quite suffi- 
cient to make Mrs. Blake put an end to the conversation, 
. and she soon after took her leave. Henry went with her 
to the door, at her own request, and she took him into 
the front parlor, to make a last appeal on behalf of the 
child. She asked him was he going to let his child grow 
up a heathen. “ No, no,” he said ; he would get Jane 
persuaded to have it baptized, as soon as she was able to 
go about. He didn’t like to worry her, then, about a mat- 
ter that could just as well stand over a little. But, if 
the child died in the raeantinn- ? Oh ! no fear of that ; 
there was every appearance of life and health about him. 

“ And so, Henry,” said his mother, rising and going 
towards the door, “ and so you’re determined to wait till 
Jane chooses ?” 

“ Till she is quite recovered, mother,” said Henry, witlr 
a smile. 


278 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

“ Well ! mind, if anything happens before then, your 
child’s blood will fall on your own head. Neither Mr. 
nor Mrs. Pearson has got to answer for your child — but, 
you that call yourself a Catholic — you had better look to 
it in time. Remember, the loss of a soul is no trilling 
matter. Oh, Henry ! what’s come over you at all I My 
heart is so fuL that I can hardly speak.” 

“ 1 know and give you credit for all you would say, 
mother ; but, I really cannot get into a discussion with 
my dear Jane at such a perilous time 1” 

“ Discussion 1 why, there’s no need of a discussion ; 
just tell her that you’re answerable to God for your 
child’s soul, and that you must have it baptized right off. 
You’ll .see if she’ll hold out after that 1” 

Henry smiled and shook his head. “ Impossible, 
mother, I wouldn’t speak so to her on any account — at 
present, I mean !’’ 

“ Ah ! then, God mend you both !” said the mother ; 
“ there’s little difference between you. May the Lord 
look to the poor child, amongst you,’ anyhow ! it’s him 
1 pity, and not you I” Henry smiled again and bowed 
his mother out with a great show of re.spect, then went 
back laughing to tell Jane what she had said, and iiow 
well he had managed to get rid of her importunity. He 
found Jane under treatment for a threatened attack of 
fever. The nurse, like a good Protestant, and a skillful 
tender of the sick, was doing all she could to fan the 
flame in the iiiterior, while she kept the head cool with 
vinegar, and other such applications. Mrs. Henry was 
quite excited, and accosted her husband, on his entrance, 
in no very gentle tone. 

“ Positively, Henry, I must decline seeing your mother 
any more till I am quite recovered. I had no idea that 


EBENEZER. 


■ 2t9 

she could be so annoying. Such a fuss as she did make 
about that baptism ; one would think it was a matter of 
life and death, I declare solemnly 1 wouldn’t be a 
Romanist for all the wealth of New York ; they are the 
queerest people ! — baptism, indeed I and the dear child 
only four days old ! — what barbarians papists must be, 
to go dip poor little infants like that into cold water ! — 
what hearts those priests of yours must have !” 

“ Pardon me, my dearest Jane, if. I interrupt you. I 
merely wish to set you right as to Catholic baptism. 
The priest does not dip the child into the water, he 
merely pmvrs some on its head.” 

“ Pour water on its head !” cried Jane, forgetting all 
about her impending fever ;"“and I should like to know 
what earthly good can that do the child 't Don’t talk to 
me of such humbug, let him wait till he conies to years of 
discretion, then he can answer for himself, and be duly 
immersed in the mystical waters.” 

“ Well, well, Jane, let us drop the subject for the 
present ; but, before we do, had we not better decide on 
the boy’s name ?” said Henry, soothingly. 

“ Oh ! that is easily settled. I would like to call him Ebe- 
nezer, after my father — that is, if you have no objection.” 

Henry said to himself, “ I wish your father had some 
more modern name for us to borrow ;” to Jane he 
expressed himself perfectly satisfied, and was quite wil- 
ling, he said, to pay her father that compliment. 

When Mrs. Blake, senior, heard of the name, she 
raised her hands and eyes in horror! “Well! after 
that, Miles !” said she to her husband, “ Henry may do 
what he likes — nothing he does or says will surprise me ! 
— Ebenezer Blake ! Ebe — ne — zer Blake I” enunciating 
each syllable so as to bring out the full length and 


280 ■ 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


solemnity of the name. “ Did ever any one hear of a 
Blake with such a name as that !— it’s a wonder it 
wasn’t Nabuchodonoser they .called the poor infant ! 
Oh ! then, dear ! oh, dear ! — oh, dear ! isn’t it the p >or 
case to have our Henry’s son called h^benezer, and, what’s 
worse, grow up a heathen — an unbaptized heathen ! — but, 
I’ll take good care that I’ll have nothing to do with him 
— let old Ebenezer take care of young Ebenezer — a shil- 
ling of our money he’ll never handle with my consent ! — 
eh, Miles — what do you say ?” 

“ I say ditto, Mary !” replied her luisband. quietly, but 
emphatically — “we’ll’ wash our hands of the whole set, 
since that’s the way they’re turning out. But, for good- 
ness’ sake, don’t say anything to Tim about this — he’ll 
hear it time enough !” 

“ Oh ! never fear. Miles, I’m not such a fool as all that 
comes to !” 

A day or two after, when Jane was considered some- 
what stronger, Henry began adroitly to insinuate, tliat 
it would be anything but advantageous to Ebenezer the 
Second, in a pecuniary point of view, to quarrel with his 
w'ealthy Fa-pist progenitor. This was a startling sugges- 
tion to Mrs. Henry, who, having been brought up in the 
religion of dollars and cents, had a pious veneration for 
all that appertained thereto, and very naturally shrank 
from the prospect of depriving her beloved child of any 
reversionary advantages of that sort. She observed, in 
a thoughtful tone, that there might be something in that. 
She would speak to pa and ma that very day ; she was 
quite sure they were not at all bigoted, and could easily 
be persuaded that it would be no great harm to have 
Ebenezer baptized. A few years sooner or later made 
no great harm after all. . 


DEATH OF THE CHILD. 


281 


That very ni^ht, when Mrs. Miles Blake was kneeling 
at her |)rayers, in preparatioii for going to bed, there 
came a loud knocking at the hall door that made every 
one in the house start. Tiie door being opened by Miles 
himself, he was confronted by Henry’s man-servant, who 
was sent to beg Mrs. Blake to go down as fast as she 
possibly could, for that the child was taken bad with 
some kind of firs. 

This was fearful news for the believing parents, espe- 
cially Mrs, Blake, who forgot all her recent anger in her 
anxiety to administer private baptism to the child. 
Eliza would fain accompany her father and mother ; but, 
as she was already half-prepared for bed, her mother 
would not wait for her to dress, but hastened off with 
Miles as fast as their feet could carry them, praying all 
the time that the poor innocent child might not die with- 
out baptism. 

In vain did good Mrs. Blake and her more phlegmatic 
liusband fly over the ground with a lightness that they 
could liardly believe possible at another time ; in vain 
did the incet.se of prayer go up from the grandmother’s 
heart and lips — her prayers were not gathered in the 
golden urn above — on reaching Henry’s house they found 
all in grief and consternation— the child was dead ! 

“ Dead I” cried Mrs. Blake, snatching up the infant, 
off the nurse’s knee ; “dead ! — oh I sure — sure he’s not 
dead ! — he can’t be dead !” The nurse shook her head, 
Jane buried her head in her pillows, and Henry walked 
to the window to conceal his emotion. 

Mrs. Blake saw at a glance tliat it was too true. 
The swelled and discolored ffice of the child, already cold 
and lifeless, told its own sad story. Laying the little 
corpse quietly down on its cradle-bed, Mrs. Blake sat 


282 


BRAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


down and wept bitterly. Miles would have soothed her ; 
but, for some time, she resisted all his efforts. 

“ Let me alone. Miles ; let me cry it out. I have 
good reason I Oh ! if I had only taken the darling 
child myself, and given it a private baptism that day 
before 1 left here ! — I’ll never, never forgive myself I” 

My dear mother !” said Henry, “ there’s no use in 
. you reproaching yourself ; it ain’t any fault of yours. I’m 
sure !” 

“ No matter whose fault it is,” observed Miles, “ it’s 
a bad business. I wouldn’t be in your place, Henry, this 
night, for a good round sum !” 

“ 1 think, father,” said Henry, sharply, “ you might 
choose a fitter time than this for making your strictures. 
I didn’t send for you to ask your opinion of my conduct. 
Jane, my love, how do you feel ?” 

Jane could not answer ; she was in a hysterical fit 
of weeping. Her son was dead, and she vvould not be 
comforted. Not that she had the sliglitest idea of his 
, having sustained any loss in dying without baptism, but 
he was dead, dead when she thought him most likely to 
live ; and, like the hapless father immortalized in Scottish 
song — 

“ she was left lamenting.” 

That was a heavy blow to Henry Blake and his wife 
for the time being. Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, too, were, at 
first, very much shocked ; but, after the lapse of a few 
weeks, they all, even Jane herself, began to find consola- 
tion in the fact, that “ poor baby” had not been baptized 
by a priest. This was, of course, between themselves, for 
they gave Henry credit for more Catholicity than he 
really possessed. As far as he was concerned, the ques- 


A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE. 


283 


tion of baptism, or non-baptism, gave him but little 
concern. 

All tills was known and talked of amongst the Catho- 
lic relatives of Henry Blake, and it may well be supposed 
that our friend Tim did not fail to pay a visit of condo- 
lence to Miles and Mary. Now, Tim was really grieved 
at the irretrievable misfortune which had occurred ; but, 
as it was irretrievable, he thought he would just “ take a 
rise out of Miles,” so he dropped in, as usual, one evening 
to Miles Blake’s sitting-room, with his hands in his pock- 
ets, and his face as grave as grave could be, 
though the waggish smile was lurking in his eyes and 
around his mouth. Miles, in his heart, wished him at 
Jericho ; but, on the whole, he put the best face he 
could on the matter ; and, as Tim could not think of 
jesting on a subject of such awful importance, poor Miles 
got over the visit better than he had dared to expect. 
As for Tim, when he stood up to go away, he wondered 
how it was that he had not taken the intended “ rise ” 
out of Miles and Mary, and that, instead of twitting 
them with Henry’s want of religion, and its lamentable 
effects, he had been actually condoling with them in the 
best of good faith. Poor, honest, kind-hearted Tim 
Flanagan ; it was just like him, as his sister said when 
he was gone. 

“ He’s a heart of oak,” said Miles, with unusual 
warmth. “ After all, there are not many like him novv- 
a-days I” 

“ I wish he’d only leave off that nasty habit of thrust- 
ing his hands in his pockets,” said Eliza, “ it is so vul- 
gar ! I wonder Edward, or John, or the' girls don’t 
break him off of it !” 

“You needn’t wonder, then,” replied her mother, 


284 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS.^ 


quickly ; “neither EiJward, iior John, nor Thomas that’s 
to be onlained next year — no, nor the girls neither, ever 
sees any fault in their father. Its proud of him they ai-e, 
Eliza, not like some folks 1 know that look down with 
disdain on the father and mother that have raised them 
to whatever lieight they have I” 

“ Why, dear me ! ma, you needn’t take on so ; I’m 
sure I meant no harm !” 

“ Nor no good, either, Eliza ! I’ll thank you to walk 
up stairs to your own room, if it’s not too great a favor I 
You have a face of brass, my good girl, or you wouldn’t 
talk to my face about your uncle Tim’s ‘ nasty habits.’ 
He has no nasty habits, I tell you, Eliza Blake. I wish 
you and your brother were only half as good, or half as 
respectable as Tim Flanagan is I If you were, we’d all 
have another story to tell !” 

Eliza stood up and put by her work in silence. There 
was a deep flush on her cheek that was very unusual, but 
she said never a word. Bowing stiffly and formally to 
each of lier parents, she left the room in silence. It were 
superfluous to say how her parents felt, ho'w they looked, 
or what they said. Suffice it to say, they lay down that 
night with heavy hearts and sad forebodings. 


THE ilARRIAGE PROPOSAL. 


285 


CHAPTER XYII. 

ZACHARY THOMSON GAINS HIS POINT REVELATIONS OP A 

DELICATE NATURE ELIZA’s LITTLE TRIALS, AND HOW SHE 

SURMOUNTED THEiL 

Miles Blake arid bis wife were still smarting with the 
keen self-reproach following on the death of Henry’s first- 
born, without baptism, when, as if to make the wound 
still deeper, came Zachary Thomson to propose for 
Eliza. Now, Miles Blake saw the day, and that not 
many years before, when he would have received the pro- 
posal with something more than satisfaction ; but, the 
events of the last few months had somewhat opened his 
eyes as to the effects of mixed marriages, and the con- 
sequence was that though he still felt honored and flat- 
tered by Zachary’s offer, yet he shrank from giving his 
consent. His wife was still more opposed to the match 
— not that she had any objection to the young man him- 
self, or to his family — far from it, indeed ; but, to tell 
the real truth, she had got such a fright by the death of 
Henry’s child, and was so vexed at the goings-on she 
saw at the time, that she would sooner see Eliza laid in 
her grave than have her marry a Protestant. This did 
not all come out at once, but, Zachary questioned and 
cross-questioned both husband and wife until he had 
elicited the whole truth. 


286 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


“Well now said Zachary, laughing, “we’ve got to 
the bottom of 3^our refusal at last ; why did you not 
frankly give me your reasons at once I You had me in 
a terrible fright, I give you my honor.” 

“ How is that ?” said Miles. 

“ Wliy, my dear sir, I was startled by your refusal, 
for I began to fear that you had, after all, some serious 
objection, either to myself, my prospects, or my family ; 
but when it is only on a point of religion that you hesitate, 
there is no trouble in getting over that. I hope you 
know me well enough to believe me incapable of interfer- 
ing with Eliza’s religion. Pshaw I it is absurd to men- 
tion such a thing. Come ! my dear father and mother-in- 
law that are to be, dismiss all these idle, childish fears, from 
your mind, and give your consent cordially and cheerfully. 
You know I love Eliza as well, aye, better than I do 
myself — you knew it years ago. And I have Eliza’s 
assurance that if you consent she has no objection — in- 
deed, she wa's good enough to say that she co\dd never » 
love any one else as she loves me. So you see there’s no 
use setting your face against it.” 

“Jane Pearson was as sweet as .sugar till she got mar- 
ried,” observed Miles, “ and, indeed, for a few months 
after : now, you know yourself, Zachary, that she’s as 
bitter against our religion as e’er a one in New York city. 
How do we know but you’d just turn out the same ?” 

“ Why, really,” said Zachary with the same merry 
laugh, “one would suppose, to hear you talk, that the 
risk was all on one side. Don’t you think my religion 
will be in danger as w'ell as Eliza’s ? See how m.y father 
don’t* object to my marrying a Catholic. But I kjiow 
you’re not in earnest. I see the smile on your- faces 
though you would fain conceal it, if you could. I’ll take 


THE SUITOR SUCCESSFUL. 28t 

it for granted that it’s all settled— so good morning. 
Not a word now ; I see you’re going to apologize. But 
never mind. I forgive you, especially as your opposition 
was entered (as we say at the bar) on the score of reli- 
gion. Ha ! ha ! religion, indeed ! just as if I’d ever give 
myself or others any trouble about religion. No fear of 
me preventing a young one from being baptized ; eh, Mr. 
Blake I no, nor calling it Ebenezer ; my own name is 
scriptural enough, and Protestant enough, too ; but- it is 
not quite so bad as Ebenezer. Even my father’s name 
is only Samuel.” 

In this way he rattled on, apparently from his constitu- 
tional and habitual levity, but in reality to prevent jVlr. 
and Mrs. Blake from edging in a word of opposition to 
the match. They, on their part, waited in vain for such 
an opportunity,r and at last they really forgot that they 
had intended to oppose it, so overpowering was Zachary’s 
confidence, and so successful were his tactics. By the 
time he stood up to go, he had talked the worthy couple 
into a dreamy state of half consciousness, a mesmeric 
slumber, as it were, wherein they answered on his dicta- 
tion rather than tleir own previous convictions. When 
he was gone, they sat for some minutes looking at each 
other in silence, at first rather gloomily, but gradually 
their faces relaxed, and they actually laughed out at the 
remembrance of the scene just gone through.” 

“Well ! Miles,” on one side, was answered by “ well I 
Mary,” on the other, and they both laughed again. 

“So we have given our consent whether we would or 
not,” said Miles ; “ nobody could get over Zachary— he 
has such a way with him. After all, maybe things may 
turn out better than we expect. Zachary’s a real good- 
hearted, off-handed fellow, and I’m sure he’ll make a good 


288 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


husband. As for religion, we must only try and get 
Father Power to put Eliza on her guard. The Thomsons 
are not near so black as the I’earsons.’' 

“ Still there’s something telling me that we shouldn’t 
let P]liza marry a Protestant,” said Mrs. Blake, with a 
thoughtful air ; “ we’ve had warning enough to make us 
wise ; but, then, there was no such thing » as refusing 
Zachary. And besides, I know very well Eliza likes him 
better than any one else. So I suppose we must only 
leave the matter in the hands of God — what will be, will 
be!” 

Poor Mrs. Blake talked of leaving the result to God, 
when she was acting against her own religious convictions, 
and allowing her daughter to walk deliberately into the 
gulf. God has little to do with marriages like that. They 
are contracted in direct oppositian to the teaching of his 
Church, and how can they be blessed in their fruits ? 

Now Zachary was not quite so candid in this memor- 
able interview as his credulous hearers supposed. Eliza 
had told him in plain terms that she could not put up 
with the whims of her pa and ma any longer. When any- 
thing went wrong with Henry or Jhne, she said, they 
were sure to revenge it on her. They actually seemed to 
think that they might treat her just as they “ had a mind 
to,” and she was determined to put an end to it one way 
or the other. In short, she made out such a case in her 
own favor, and against her parents, that Zachary, who 
really loved her, felt a chivalrous desire to set her free 
from the bondage in which she was held by her naughty 
pa and ma. He had not intended to put the question so 
soon, but since dear Ekza was so unpleasantly situated, 
he had no alternative but come and carry her off, and 
make her mistress of herself and an elegant establishment 


DR. POWER ’S ADVICE. 


289 


But, of course, it would never do to tell the old people 
that. So Zachary kept his own secret, and found it to 
his advantage. Eliza’s filial dispositions were not called 
in question, and Zachary went on his way rejoicing. To 
do him justice, he had a sort of liking for the old couple, 
and was desirous to spare them the pain of knowing what 
their daughter had said of them. 

Mrs. Blake went, according to promise, to ask Dr. 
Power to give Eliza some advice suitable to the approach- 
ing change in her condition. Dr. Power heard all she 
had to say, then smiled and shook his head. 

“ If I thought my admonitions would have any good 
effect,” said he, “ 1 should be very willing to do what 
you ask, but I cannot hope for any such result. It is very 
strange — pardon me, my good lady — it is very strange, 
indeed, that both of your children should marry Protes- 
tants. Have you found your son’s marriage turning out 
so well that you are contracting a similar alliance for 
your daughter ?” 

Mrs. Blake quailed beneath the searching eye that was 
fixed upon her, and a deep blush crimsoned her face : 
“Well, no, your reverence, it wasn’t that, but somehow 
we couldn’t get over Zachary when he came to ask . us. 
He makes very fair promises, sir — 

“ So did the devil, my dear madam, when he tempted 
Eve.” 

Mrs. Blake knew not what to say, and Dr. Power 
thought the best thing he could do for her was to put an 
}nd to the interview. “ The fact is, Mrs. Blake,” said he, 
standing up, “ the fact is that I can do nothing for you 
in this^ matter. If you permit your daughter to marry 
this>Mt. Thomson, whom you describe as so captivating,” 
he • added, with a smile, “ my previous injunctions would 
13 . 


290 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


not be long remembered in the contingencies of marri»"d 
life. You must all take the consequences of your own 
rashness — shall I say presumption ? These are harsh 
words, Mrs. Blake, but they are just what conscience 
and duty both dictate. — Good morning I — I find there is 
a person waiting to see me in the next room.” 

Mrs. Blake could hardly restrain her tears, but she 
managed to keep up a show of composure, and walked 
out with an air of offended dignity. “ It will be long 
before I trouble him again,” said she to herself, as the 
servant closed the door behind him. “ I’m sure it isn’t 
my fault, and yet he talks as if the whole blame were on 
Miles and me ; that’s not fair of Father Power, and I’ll 
not forget it to him in a hurry.” 

Matters were thus made worse and worse. Miles was 
quite indignant when he heard what had passed, and 
swore a good round oath that Eliza should marry Zachary 
Thomson, and that before a week went round, if it were 
only to spite Father Power. They would just let him 
see that they could do without him, and that he might 
not think to make cats’-paws of them. He didn’t care 
the snap of his finger for Father Power or any one else. 

This was all very satisfactory to the young folks. The 
Thomsons and ' the Pearsons applauded Miles’s indepen- 
dent spirit, (the old leaven breaking out again) and Mrs. 
Henry was so pleased that she came to assist her mother- 
in-law in preparing for the wedding. Miles, thus encou- 
raged in his contumacy, kept his word to the very letter. 
Just four days after Mrs. Blake’s unlucky visit to Dr. 
Power, Eliza Blake and Zachary Thomson were united in 
marriage. The ceremony was performed first (in compli- 
ment to the bride) by the assistant pastor of St. Peter’s, — 
Dr. Power being, of course, out of the question, — and 


THE KNOT IS TIED. 


291 


afterwards bj the Reverend Hooker Tomkins, the favo- 
rite preacher of the Thomson family. “A burning and 
a shining light ” was Tomkins in the conventicle known 
by the name of John Wesley, and him did the Thomsons 
honor with an exceeding great honor. In his hands were 
vested the spiritual destinies of the family, and it glad- 
dened his inner man to get within the circle of his influence 
“ a professed follower of the Romish superstition.” Fer- 
vent, indeed, was the blessing wherewith Hooker Tom- 
kins blessed the union of Zachary and Eliza. 

When the double ceremony was performed next day, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Zachary Thomson had received the 
congratulations of their friends, they started from the 
door of the Wesleyan meeting-house on a tour through 
the Midland States. They were accompanied only by 
Arabella Thomson, her sister having given her hand and 
fortune some months before to a wine-merchant in Pine 
street, The Reverend Hooker Tomkins wished them from 
the steps a pleasant and a prosperous journey, to wliich 
Zachary responded with a hearty “ Thank you, thank 
you, Mr. Tomkins — much obliged for your good wishes,” 
and the carriage drove off. Mrs. Blake drew down her 
heavy lace veil to conceal her tears, as her husband 
handed her to the carriage where Mrs. Pearson awaited her. 

The Flanagans and Mr. O’Callaghan were honored with 
an invitation to the wedding party, held on the return of 
the happy pair, but none of them went except Edward 
and Margaret. Their going was agreed upon at a family 
meeting held on the previous evening. None of the elders 
of the family would go, and yet they all wished to keep 
matters as smooth as possible, so it was decided that 
Edward and Margaret should go to represent the whole. 
Ellie and Susan would willingly have gone, but their 


292 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


father and mother wisely thought that it would be any- 
thing but safe to expose two young girls just approaching 
womanhood, to the chance of making acquaintances which 
they could not sanction. 

“Never mind, girls,” said their father gaily ; “youdl 
have opportunities enough of showing off without ven- 
turing into dangerous company. I don’t want my little 
Ellie or Susie to be getting acquainted with persons that 
we don’t know. Eh, Mr. O’Callaghan, what do you say ?” 

“ Upon my honor, I think you’re quite in the right. 
Still, it’s rather hard to have the girls miss a wedding. 
Isn’t it, girls ?” 

“ Well, it’s true 'N^would like to go,” said Ellie, cheer- 
fully, “ bnt when father and mother are opposed to it, of 
course there is nothing more to be said. We can spend 
our day as happily, and more happily at home. Can’t 
we, Susie dear ?” 

“ Sour grapes, my dear sisters !” said Edward, laugh- 
ing ; “ tell the truth, now, do you not envy Margaret 
and me ?” 

“ Eie, Edward I” interposed his gentle wife, “ why 
will you tease the girls ? No, indeed, T am quite sure 
they have not the slightest wish to go after what their 
father said. Am I not right, girls ?” 

“ Quite right, indeed, Margaret,” said both together ; 
“ and we thank you very much,” added Susie, “ for defend- 
ing our reputation as dutiful daughters. What a pretty 
fellow Edward is, to raise a doubt on the subject. But 
we shall find an opportunity to pay him back. So look 
sharp, master Edward !” 

“ Do your best, my saucy little sister I” said Edward, 
tapping her playfully on the cheek ; “ when I fall, be 
sure you run to take me up I” 


UNCLE Tim’s visit. 


293 


A few weeks after, when Zachary and Eliza returned, 
uncle Tim and his wife went to pay them a visit at their 
handsome dwelling in Fourth street. In the course of 
conversation, Mrs. Flanagan asked Eliza how she had 
enjoyed her trip, whereupon Zachary laughed and said : 
“ Pretty well, on the whole, though Eliza had her trials 
for the first few days. You Catholics can’t get through 
the world so smoothly as other folks.” 

“ Why, what had religion to do with Eliza’s trials ?” 
demanded Tim, with a look of surprise, though he partly 
guessed what was coming. 

“ For mercy’s sake, Zachary,” interposed Eliza, “ don’t 
go on with such childish folly ; uncle Tim is so fond of 
cracking jokes that if you tell him I shall never hear the 
end of it.” 

Tim saw plainly, by the deep crimson of her cheek, 
that there was something more than a joke in question. 
But he had his own reasons for wishing to know what it 
was. 

“Well,” said Zachary, gaily, “in the first place it so 
happened that for the first two or three Fridays, the 
hotel people, as we went along, were so forgetful of poor 
Eliza, or any one else, being forbidden to eat meat on 
that day, that they hadn’t a bit of fish on the table. 
This put dear Eliza quite out of patience, and I assure 
you she would have punished herself for the unintentional 
neglect of others, by going without either fish or flesh, 
until I got her half persuaded and threatened into eating 
meat.” 

“ Indeed ! and how did you manage to persuade her ?” 

“ Why, I told her that if the Pope himself were there, 
he’d have to eat meat when there was no fish. Wasn’t 
that true. Uncle Tim ?” 


294 


B L A K E S AND FLANAGANS. 


“I rather think not,” said Tim, drily ; not the 

Pope, and yet I wouldn’t eat meat for any such reason, 
so long as I could eat bread and butter and eggs — there 
are many things on a hotel-table that a Catholic can 
make a meal of for one day, without breaking the com- 
mandments of the Church.” 

Eliza cast a reproachful glance at Zachary, who, all 
unconscious of the shame she necessarily felt, proceeded 
with his humorous recital. “Well! Pm happy to say 
that Eliza was not quite so obstinate as that ; she knows 
her duty as a wife too well to disobey her husband, let 
the commandment of the Church go as it may.” 

“ Por shame, Zachary 1” exclaimed Eliza, pettishly ; 
“ why will you talk such nonsense ?” 

“Never mind, Eliza, Uncle Tim is no stranger, and I 
just want to let him and aunty hear how it befell us, or 
rather you^ on the road. Well, the first Friday was the 
worst,” he went on, addressing himself to Tim ; “ after 
that, Eliza was more rational, and made a virtue of 
necessity. Whenever there did happen to be fish on the 
table, she made a meal of it — except last Friday, when 
she felt poorly, and couldn’t venture on the fish. I 
told her it was a judgment on her,” he added, laughing. 

“Well, are you done?” asked Eliza, rising from her 
seat in evident agitation. “ Can you remember anything 
more ?” 

“ Yes, I can,” replied her laughing husband, who 
rather enjoyed her confusion. “We had another cam- 
paign about going to church on Sunday — that is for the 
first Sunday, and I believe the second — eh, Eliza ?” 

“ Positively, Zachary, I must leave the room if you go 
on so,” cried Eliza, her face alternately pale and flushed, 
and her voice quivering with emotion. 


THORNS IN THE PATH. 


296 


Zachary saw he had gone a little too far, and drawing 
her to him, he said, in a soothing tone : “ Why, Eliza, 
dear, are you serious ? surely you cannot but know that 
I had no intention of givkg you pain ? If you are 
really offended, I will say no more. I thought it would 
amuse your uncle and aunt to hear of our little adven- 
tures on the way, and it never occurred to me that you 
could take it ill.’^ 

“ Say no more,” said Tim, briskly ; “ we don’t want 
to hear anything that would give Eliza pain. Cheer up, 
Eliza, my dear I there’s no use in letting your spirits sink 
for trifles. I only wonder you got back safe at all, for to 
tell the truth, I didn’t expect you’d have luck on your 
journey with the weight of Tomkins’s blessing on your 
back.” 

Why, don’t you think. Uncle Tim,” said Zachary, with 
a smile, “ that our Mr. Tomkins’s blessing is just as good 
as your Father Power’s ?” 

“May Grod forgive you for making such a comparison,” 
said Tim. “ I wouldn’t mention the two men in one 
breath. There’s just as much difference between them- 
^ekes as there is between the religions they profess, and 
that is — you may guess what I” and so saying, Tim took 
up his hat and stick. “ Good bye, Eliza I good bye, 
Mr. Thompson ! I’m glad to see you both looking so w«^ll 
after your unlucky journey. Next time you go travel- 
ling, Eliza, I’d advise you to hang conscience up in the 
wardrobe before you start, then you can act like a good, 
obedient wife, and a nice little Protestant lady. Come 
along, Nelly ! you know we have to call at O’Callaghan’s 
on our way home.” 

When they were gone, Zachary laughed heartily, 
and ridiculed what he called Eliza’s over-sensitiveness. 


296 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“There^s something about your Uncle Tim,” said he, 
“ that makes one like him, even when he says what one 
does not care to hear. Now, coming from any one else, 
I would have certainly resented that last observation of 
his ; but, for my life, I can’t be angry with him. There’s 
something so frank and good-natured about him, and he 
seems so earnest and sincere in his Catholicity — I was 
just going to say Romanism, till I thought -of your 
recent vexation — that one cannot take ill what he 
says. Every one sees that he never meobm to give 
offence.” 

“ Well, I don’t care,” said Eliza, pouting, he had no 
business to speak so. I declare I shall begin to be 
ashamed of my religion, if I hear people make such a 
fuss about it. He had better take care how he talks to 
me about the commandments of the Church.” 

“ Well done, Eliza I” said her husband, still more 
gaily than before ; “ 1 begin to have good hopes of you, 
my darling girl. I was afraid you had not quite spirit 
enough for the wife of a free American ; but I see you 
have more than I gave you credit for ! Are we going 
to spend the evening at my father’s ?” Eliza answered 
in the affirmative, and then Zachary hurried away to his 
office, telling his wife to be sure and cultivate the lofty 
spirit of independence that had just so agreeably sur- 
prised him by its first manifestation. 

When Tim and Nelly called at Mr. O’Callaghan’s, 
they found only Margaret. Edward, she said, was at the 
store. 

“ So much the better, Maggie,” observed Tim. “ I 
am glad to find that marriage has not lessened his atten- 
tion to business.” 

“ It would be too bad if it did, sir,” replied Margaret, 


INFLUENCE OF EARLY T R A I N I N G . 29’i 

as she placed two chairs near the fire. “ May I ask 
where you have been, that you are here so early in the 
afternoon, for I am sure you did not come out on pur- 
pose to see me at this hour of the day 

“ You’re right enough, Maggie, my dear I we were up 
paying a visit to Mr. and .Mrs. Zachary Thomson.” 

“Well I and how did you find Eliza ?” 

“ Oh ! pretty well — in body, at least,” added Tim, 
with emphasis ; “ she’s not over-burdened with religion, 
I’m afraid, any more than Zachary. They’re well met 
in that respect.” 

“ Why, what makes you think so, sir ? I hope you’re 
mistaken 1” said Margaret earnestly, and she fixed her 
eyes on his face, as if in search of the true answer which 
his words might evade. 

Tim looked at his wife, as much as to say, “ Shall I 
tell ?” Mrs. Flanagan nodd-ed and said, “ As you please, 
Tim ; it won’t be long a secret, you may be sure ; at 
least I fear it won’t.” 

When Tim had told all, Margaret sighed. “ It is just 
as I feared,” said she. “ It appears the Thomsons already 
boast that Eliza is on the high road to evangelical reli- 
gion, as they say themselves. I really had better hopes 
i of Eliza, and am painfully disappointed in her. She is so 

1 amiable that it is hard to see her going astray. It is 

very strange that both brother and sister are so indiffer- 
ent in religious matters.” 

I “ You wouldn’t find it strange, Margaret,” said Tim, 
i with unusual gravity, “ if you had known the family as 
long as I do. Their indifference — their want of faith, in 
fact — is all the effect of early training, and early associa- 
tions. From their youth up, both Henry and Eliza have 
* been keeping company with Protestants, taught by Protes- 

13 '*’ 


298 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


tants and looking up to Protestants as far superior to 
Catholics — how could they be anything else but what they 
are, as regards religion V' 

“ Oh I I had almost forgotten to ask,’’ said Margaret, 
“ are you invited to dine at Henry Blake’s to-morrow ? 
Edward and I are asked, but I*don’t think I shall go.” 

“We heard nothing of it,” said Tim. “We are not polish- 
ed enough for such company as Henry Blake usually enter- 
tains. It’s well he condescends to invite you and Edward. 
I suppose he’ll have Tomkins there to say grace.” 

“ Oh I of course ; he couldn’t ask the Thomsons with- 
out asking their right hand — I mean their left-hand angel. 
Tomkins can enjoy a good dinner, I presume, as well as 
most men, and, indeed, his paunch says as much. He 
has a face, too, that looks like the very best of living !” 

Mrs. Flanagan laughed as she pointed to Tim’s own 
face, round, and fresh, and the picture of contentment. 
“ See there, now, Margaret, I just leave it to you if Tim 
hasn’t a fine red face of his own ; don’t you know the old 
saying, Tim dear, about people that live in glass houses 
throwing stones ? eh, Tim ?” 

“ You have me there, Nelly, I declare you have !” cried 
Tim, with perfect good humor. 

“ But what about Arthur Brown ?” inquired Margaret, 
with a sly glance at Mrs. Flanagan. “ I hear he is quite 
an admirer of our Ellie ?” 

“ He must admire her at a safe distance, then,” res- 
ponded Tim, quickly. “ If he were hanging with dia- 
monds he shouldn’t have anything to say to her. No I 
no I no Protestant suitors or Protestant husbands for wy 
daughters. Arthur Brown is a very good young man, 
and getting on very well in business ; but let him go to 
his own sort for a wife, when he wants one.” 


INFLUENCE OF EARLY TRAINING. 299 


“ But how do you know that Ellie will be of the same 
opinion as you are ?” persisted Margaret, with the same 
arch smile. 

“ How do I know, Maggie ? why, because our children 
have all been brought up in the firm conviction that he 
who loves the danger will pjerish in it. I have no great 
fears that any of them will ever marry a Protestant.” 

“ Nor I either,” added Mrs. Flanagan quietly. “ But 
we’re forgetting ourselves altogether, Tim dear, as we 
always do when we come here. Be sure you conae down 
this evening, Margaret, you and Edward, for you know 
poor Susie is not well these times, and it will cheer her up 
some to see you all around her.” Margaret promised, and 
the worthy couple hurried away arm in arm. 


300 


-BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 




CHAPTER XVIII. -*r-^ 

THE DINNER PARTY THE MISFORTUNE OF HAVING A * 

WEAK STOMACH. 

Edward Flanagan would have persuaded Margaret to 
go -with him next day to Henry Blake’s, but Margaret 
was, for once, obstiuate, or rather firm. “ I have never 
associated much with such people as you will meet there,’^ 
said she, “ and I must own I have little liking for their 
company. Still I wish you to go, Edward, because your 
absence might offend your cousin, and I have a great 
aversion to family-quarrels.” 

So Edward was forced to go alone. He, too, was 
anxious to keep up appearances, though, in his heart, he 
felt dissatisfied with Henry for not having invited his 
father and mother. He found a numerous party already 
assembled in the drawing-room, whiling away the tedious 
half-hour before dinner in promiscuous conversation. The 
Thomsons and Pearsons were all there, so were the Smiths 
and Greens, but Edward waited in vain to see either uncle 
or aunt. This he could not help remarking to Mrs. 
Henry Blake. 

“ Oh I really,” replied Jane, “ the old folks are so 
crotchety of late, that we have been forced to cut the 
connection.” 



THE DINNER PARTY. 


301 


Indeed !’’ said Edward, “ and pray how long is it 
since you have, cut the connection ? I was not aware of 
any coolness between you.” 

“Well! I can’t say there’s a coolness; but, some- 
how, they and we don’t get along well together, so 1 
believe there’s a tacit agreement between us to keep 
asunder. The old lady has turned out quite pious, and 
undertakes to say that Henry and I should be of just 
the same notion. So, of course, we can’t ; — it would be 
quite impossible, you know, Mr. Flanagan, for people 
like us to adopt those old-fashioned ways and notions 
that they brought with them from Ireland.” 

This was certainly a satisfactory reason for “ cutting 
the connection,” and Edward could not help smiling at 
the naivete with which it came out. He wondered was 
she really so simple as not to be aware that his parents, 
too, had brought ways and notions from Ireland ; and, 
what was more, that he had himself “adopted” those 
identical ways and notions. But, to 'Mrs. Henry he 
merely bowed and smiled, and said : “ Oh I of course — 
no one‘ could expect any such thing.” 

There were two ministers at the table on that occa- 
sion. One was the Rev. Hooker Tomkins (who actually 
did- S 2 iy grace as Tim had expected), and the other a tall, 
thin, melancholy-looking man, who announced the word 
to the Baptists of that section of the city. These gen- 
tlemen were the guests of the evening, and, as such, were 
duly installed in the places of honor. Conversation went 
on briskly during dinner, being chiefly of the light and 
cursory kind which gives life and animation to the dull 
routine of the dinner-table. Mr. Tomkins was quite 
taken with our friend Edward, and kept talking to him 
across the table whenever an opportunity offered. Before 


302 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


him was placed a superb boiled turkey, with oyster sauce, 
the sight of which softened the good man’s lieart, yea, 
even to woman’s tenderness. 

Let me help you to some of this fine turkey, Mr. 
Flanagan. If we are to judge by appearances, it is a 
splendid specimen of that species. What shall 1 help 
you to V’ 

“ I thank you, Mr. Tomkins.” replied Edward, with 
a smile, “ but I cannot avail myself of your kind offer. 
I dine on fish to-day.” 

“ Why, how is that ?” said Tomkins, with a look of 
surprise ; “ are you a Papist V 

“ I have that honor I” said Edward. “ Henry, will 
you allow me to send you some of this salmon-trout. I 
can recommend it, I assure you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Henry, with something like a 
blush on his face, “ I am doing very well just now. I 
never eat fish. May I trouble you^ Mr. Tomkins ?” 

Mr. Tomkins was only too happy to be so troubled. 
Having helped Henry, he renewed his attack on Edward. 
“ Really, Mr. Flanagan,” said he, “ I could not have sup- 
posed that a person of your discernment and good sense 
would be capable of such puerile folly — pardon me, my 
good young friend — we need not wonder at the low and 
the vulgar doing these things when we see such men as 
you giving them an example. Allow me to ask what 
good do you expect to derive from dining on fish instead 
of flesh V’ 

“ And allow me to ask you, reverend sir,” said Edward, 
very coolly, “ by what authority do you call me to 
account for my choice of food ? Suppose I were to 
answer your question, as I might do, by saying that I 
have as much right to eat fish as you have to eat flesh 


THE DINNER PARTY. 


303 


or fowl. But, I will go a little further in the way of 
explanation. I understood you to ask me why I choose 
to abstain from flesh-meat to-day 

“ Precisely 1” 

“ I do so, sir, because the Church commands me to do 
so — that is quite enough for you to know, or for me to 
tell.” 

Henry had entered into a close conversation with his 
mother-in-law, who sat next him ; but, it was quite evi- 
dent that not a word of what was passing was lost on 
him. This Edward saw, and he was almost sorry for it, 
as he shrank from giving unnecessary pain to any one. 
Still, he had not provoked the discussion, and he could 
not in conscience, or in honor, decline giving his opinion 
when asked. Tomkins looked around the table as if to 
gather the suffrages of the company, and, receiving sufii- 
cient encouragement from every eye, he thought he 
would make another home-thrust at Romish superstitions. 

“ Still, you do not fully answer my question, Mr. 
Flanagan. I asked you what is the object of this absti- 
nence — you say the Church commands it. I want to 
know why the Church commands it.” 

There was a general disposition to laugh, but Edward 
was by no means disconcerted. “ In that case,” said he, 
with the same quiet smile, “ in that case, Mr. Tomkins, 
I must refer you to our catechism. You can have one 
at any time by sending to my house.” 

The laugh was turned against Tomkins, whose ruddy 
face grew a shade redder as he exclaimed “ Thank 
you, I have no desire to read Romish books. The track 
of the beast is, more or less, in every one of them.” 

“ Ah, yes !” sighed the melancholy Milmore from the 
lower end of the table, “that is unhappily the case I” 


304 


BI. AKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Yon are certainly more candid than polite, gentle- 
men,” observed Edward, with his usual composure. 
“Romish books are assuredly in bad odor with many 
people now-a-days. They have in them the ‘ words of 
power,^ my good sir, which many love not, and cannot 
understand.” 

Tomkins affected to be very much engaged with the 
carving of his turkey ; but Milmore came to his support ; 
his thin, piping voice gathering strength as he proceeded. 
He took a new tack. 

“ I should take it as a favor, my good young gentle- 
man, if you would just favor us with your own views 
of this Rom — this Catholic practice. How can you 
account for it on rational grounds ?” 

“We Catholics are not accustomed, sir, to put forth 
any views on a point of church discipline. We believe 
and practice, but never presume to discuss the wise 
teachings of the Church. Abstaining from meat on such 
an occasion as the present, I consider as a public profes- 
sion of my faith, and I would, therefore, deem it an act 
of cowardice to shrink from making that profession here 
or elsewhere. Where the commandments of the Church 
are in question, a Catholic knows no distinction as to 
time, or place, or company.” 

“ How is it, then,” said Tomkins, with unguarded tri- 
umph ; “ how is it that our excellent host can rise above 
these servile usages, and yet remain a Catholic ?” 

“As to that,” returned Edward, “ I am not the keeper 
of his conscience. He can answer your question better 
than I can. Doubtless he has good reasons to assign.” 

Henry turned at the moment, and caught EdwaM’s 
sly glance fixed full on him. He was just taking wine 
with Mrs. Green, which gave him an excuse for a trifling 




THE DINNER PARTY. 305 

delay. When he had made his bow, and set down his 
empty j^lass, he turned to Mr. Tomkins. 

“ I owe it to my unfortunate stomach, my dear sir,” 
said he, with a forced smile ; I cannot make it a Catho- 
lic stomach, do as I will.” 

“ How unfortunate !” said Edward, in an ironical tone. 

“ The truth is, Mr. Tomkins,” resumed Henry, deter- 
mined, it would seem, to throw down the gauntlet at 
once ; “ the truth is, my stomach lost its Catholic tone 
at old Columbia, and has never since recovered it. 
Indeed, I much fear it never will. It is unfortunate, as 
my cousin observes, but it cannot now be remedied. Mrs. 
Pearson, the pleasure of wine with you ? Come ! ladies 
and gentlemen, we have had too much of this tiresome 
controversy ; let us change the subject.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” said Edward ; “ it is a sub- 
j ject I never take up from choice.” 

The ladies soon after retired, and Mr. Tomkins would 
fain have renewed the discussion by asking Edward, 
ironically, did the Church permit him to use wine ? 
i “ Instead of answering your question,” said Edward, 
j “ I will ask you to do me the favor of taking wine with 
j me. I must positively decline answering irrelevant ques- 
I tions,” he added, with a cheerful smile. “ What says 
[ mine host ?” 

“ All right, Edward I neither ask nor answer them — 
that is my rule.” 

“ Ah !” sighed Milmore, whom even the ruby wine 
could not warm ; “ Ah ! it were well if all men adhered 
to that wise rule. The every-day life of man is full of 
irrelevant matter 5 ysa, even the saints of God do not 
always keep the main object in view.” 

‘‘ Pardon me, Mr. Milmore,” said Edward, “if they do 


SOG BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 

not, they are not saints. To be a saint, as we Catholics 
take it, is to put off the old man, with all his concu- 
piscence, and live solely for God. I suspect, my dear sir, 
your notions of saints are not precisely of that nature.” 

'' I repeat what I have already remarked,” said Mil- 
more, in the same dreary, monotonous tone. “ I have 
tstudied the lives of the most eminent saints, and I have 
..ought in vain for one who had not the human alloy. Do 
we not find a Luther and a Calvin, a Beza, a Zuinglius, a 
X^nox, and a Wesley, having all and each some little rem- 
iant of the ancient Adam to mar the beauty ol an other- 
wise faultless character? Ah! yes, even the brightest 
gems of Christianity have, had their little imperfections ! 
I suppose it is so written in the book.” 

“Very possibly,” said Edward, laughing at the odd 
catalogue of saints brought forward so gravely by the 
reverend sentimentalist. “ It were a mere loss of time,” 
said he to himself, “ to oppose some of the real saints to 
this motley group of proud, soul-destroying heresiarchs. 
How could such a company as this appreciate the per- 
fect holiness of the saints ; and for me to protest against the 
saintship of any of the notorious characters cited, would 
only give rise to an unprofitable discussion. I will e’en 
let it pass.” 

After a while, ^'hen the gentlemen followed the ladies 
to the drawing-room, Joe Smith drew Silas Green into 
a corner. “ I say, Silas, what do you think of Edward 
Flanagan ; ain’t he a first-rate fellow ?” r 

“ Well, I must say I rather think so,” replied Silas, 
thoughtfully. “ I like to see man or woman acting up to 
their convictions.” 

“ That is, if they have any,” laughed Joe. 

“ Oh I of course. I guess Edward Flanagan has got 


THE DINNER PARTY. 30T 

» 

. . s 

convictions. He seems to see his way cleai* through reli- 
gion, a thing I never could do yet, let me try ever so 
hard.” 

“ Now, just answer me a question,” said Joe, earnestly; 

“ don’t you think Henry looked rather small, with that 
lame excuse about his stomach ?” 

“ Perhaps so ; but after all, he only acts like a free- 
born American, in eating and drinking what he likes.” 

“I know,” said Joe ; “ but even so, I can respect a 
man that acts on principle. I'm a free-born American, 
and yet I think I’d rather be Edward Flanagan than 
Henry Blake. I can’t understand the difference, but I 
feel it. If I were a papist, I’m sure I’d do just as Flanagan 
does, for I don’t like shirking ; let a man be either one 
thing or another — that’s my notion.” 

Silas laughed. “ Why, let me look close at you,” said 
he, “ that I may be sure it’s Joe Smith I have. Who 
ever expected to hear you praise a papist ?” 

“ I praise any man when I find him deserve it,” replied 
Joe, shortly. “ But come, there’s somebody going to 
sing, I believe.” 

During the remainder of the evening Joe kept quite 
close to Edward Flanagan, wondering how a man could 
be so intelligent, so polished, and all that, and yet obey 
the commandments of men (as Joe called the Church) so 
faithfully. And Edward was agreeably surprised to find 
Joe Smith really susceptible of right feeling, frank and 
honest, and warm-hearted. Much such a character as 
Zachary Thompson, but with more of what is now called 
religio.sity — as distinguished from religion. Edward sigh- 
ed as he contemplated the spiritual waste of so fine a 
nature, and he said, within himself, “How many there 
are like poor Joe — enlightened in all save religion, good 


308 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


and generous towards men, yet wholly ignorant of what 
they owe to God — how pitiable is such darkness 

“Well, Joe,” said Henry Blake; coming forward to 
where the two were seated ; “ are you making interest 
with Edward for one of his pretty sisters ? If you are, 
I warn you in time that you are on the wrong scent.” 

Edward laughed, and Joe asked, rather earnestly 
“ Why, how is that ?” 

“ You know very little of the Flanagan family,” went 
on Henry, with a dubious smile, “ if you could ever dream 
of wedding a daughter of their house. 1 have heard 
uncle Tim say that no Protestant should ever marry into 
his family — at least with his consent. How say you, 
Edward, do you think your sisters are as great sticklers 
for the orthodox as their worthy sire ?” 

Joe turned his eye on Edward, expecting to see him 
laugh at this sally, as he termed it, but no such thing, he 
had grown quite serious, all of a sudden. “Whether 
you speak in jest or earnest, Henry,” said he, with more 
warmth than he usually manifested, “ I will give you a 
serious answer, for the subject is one of serious import. 
I am quite sure that neither of my sisters would receive 
the addresses of a Protestant, knowing him for such.” 

“ Indeed I” said Joe ; “ and why not, pray ?” 

“ Simply,” said Edward, “ because they have been 
taught from their earliest infancy that salvation is not to 
be had outside the pale of the Church, and that it is 
wrong for the believer to contract a matrimonial alliance 
with the unbeliever. We have all grown up in the belief 
that Catholics should marry only Catholics, and Pro- 
testants — ” 

“ Oh ! as to them,” interrupted Henry, with some bit- 
terness, “ they may, I suppose, marry whom they please I” 


I 


THE DINNER PARTY. 


309 


“Precisely so,” said Edward, calmly. “They have 
nothing to lose in point of faith, and can choose for 
themselves amongst the countless religions wherewith the 
land is covered. Pardon me, Mr. Smith, I should be 
sorry to give you any offence, but I have seen enough of 
you in the last hour or tw^o to convince me that you are 
not wedded to any form or phase of Protestantism. I 
consider you therefore an impartial person.” 

“Thank you,” said Joe, good-humoredly; “1 accept 
the compliment. I must confess P have no particular 
religion of my own. I have never joined any church as 
yet, though my good father and mother are out-and-out 
Calvinists. Hang it I I don’t see the use of so many 
religions ; I wmut to see all of one religion, and I guess 
I’ll keep clear of them all while they’re fighting and 
squabbling as they are. Now, just look at Tomkins and 
Milmore there. Don’t they look as though they were 
bound together in the bonds of brotherly love ? Well, I 
wish you could only hear each of them' once in the pul- 
pit. I tell you they do spout red-hot fire and fury 
against all religions but their own. I take it they all 
handle ‘ the word’ in the way of business — just as you do 
your leather down in the Swamp, Mr. Flanagan, — or our 
good host here his eloquence in carrying on a suit — all 
are doing their best to earn the dollar.” 

llis hearers both laughed at the earnestness of Joe’s 
manner, and Edward was so pleased with his blunt 
honesty, that he invited him to tea on the following evening. 

“ I’d advise you to keep the girls away,” said Henry, with 
a sarcastic smile ; “ my friend Joe is not to be trusted.” 

“ Never fear,” replied Edward, “ my poor sister Susan 
is not able to go out, and Ellen hardly ever leaves her 
I want Mr. Smith to have a quiet, social evening with 


310 BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 

US. Mr. O’Callaghan, Margaret, and my father and 
mother, will, I think, impress him favorably. He must 
see something more of us Catholics.” 

“ You are the first of them whom I have known at all 
intimately,” observed Joe, “ and I am already favorably 
impressed, as you say.” 

Edward bowed and smiled. Henry attempted to smile, 
but the attempt was a failure. “ Why, you forget me, 
Joe. Have you not known me from ‘ childhood’s hour’ 
even until now ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Joe, bluntly ; “ but you^vQ not a regu- 
lar out-and-out Catholic. I can meet half-papists like 
you every day, but they ain’t any curiosity. I want to 
see what kind of people they are that fast and keep from 
eating meat, and pray, and go to confession, because 
somebody commands them to do so and Joe laughed at 
the strange idea of being commanded into any thing. 
“ But I say, Flanagan,” he added quickly, “ do you go to 
confession — if it’s a fair question ?” 

“ Quite fair,” said Edward, with a bright smile ; “ cer- 
tainly I do go to confession.” 

“ And how often, pray ?” 

“ Once a month or so.” 

“Once a month I Well, if that ain’t the queerest 
thing I That’s something I could never do. I couldn’t 
stand that, any how.” 

“ Wefl, never mind confession now — that’s not the 
point,” said Edward, gaily. “ But mind, I shall expect 
you to-morrow evening.” 

“ Might I bring Silas G-reen ?” 

“ Oh, certainly — if you wish it. I must go now, 
Henry, and bid your wife good-night, as I know Margaret 
will be expecting me.” 


the dinner party. 


, 311 


“ I’m afraid you didn’t enjoy yourself,’’ said Jane, list- 
lessly ; “ if you did, you wouldn’t go away so early.” 

“Pardon me,” said Edward, with a cheerful smile, “p 
make it a rule never to stay out later than this, especially 
when Margaret is’ not with me. I have really spent a 
very pleasant evening. Good-night.” 

When Edward got home, he found that Margaret and 
her father had gone early in the evening to see Susan, 
and were not yet returned. “ She must be very poorly,” 
thought Edward, “ when they are staying so late so 
he went himself to see what was going on. He was 
surprised to find Susan lying on the sofa in the parlor, 
while Margaret and Eliza sat by her sewing very dili- 
gently. Mr. O’Callaghan, Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan, and 
John, were playing cards at a little distance. 

“ So there you are, Susie,” said Edward, as he took 
her little hand in his, and sat down by her ; “I thought 
you’d been in bed two hours ago. You look well this 
evening.” 

“And I feel w'ell, too, Edward,” replied Susan with a 
faint smile that made her brother start, for it gleamed 
over her wan features with a pale and sickly light. Her 
hand, too, was hot and feverish. Edward did not speak 
for a moment, and he coughed slightly, as if to hide his 
emotion. 

“ How industrious we have grown all of a sudden !” 
said he, at length, with a forced smile ; “ is that part of 
a ball-dress, girls, or what is it, that you cannot spare 
time for a single word ?” 

“ They’re working for me,” said Susan, with sudden 
animation ; “ it’s a covering for my little altar that 
they’re making, and I’m just waiting to see it finished 
before I go to bed. You must come up to my 'room 


312 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


to-morrow evening, Edward, when the altar is finished, 
till you see how nice it looks. We have that handsome 
crucifix that father gave me, and the little statue of 
the Blessed Virgin that you gave me, and mother gave 
me a pretty pair of marble candlesticks, and I’m to have 
some wax-tapers. Oh ! it will be so beautiful. We’re 
going to say the Rosary there for the future, and when 
I get worse, you know, Edward, so that I can’t leave 
ray bed, I can turn towards that dear little altar and say 
my prayers.” 

“ Well, but you’re not going to be worse, Susan,” said 
her brother, trying hard to keep back the tears that- 
would come. “ You must get well very^ooii, and yous 
shall have a nice trip with us this summer — you and^. 
Ellie.” 

Susan smiled and shook her head, but not mournfully;. 
“ Thank you, dear Edward, I shall have a trip this sum- 
mer — this spring, rather — but I don’t want to have any 
of you come with me — not just yet. I’ll go now-.alaae, 
Edward, all alone ; but, after a few years, some of you- 
will come and join me in my new home — then, another; 
until, at last, we shall all be united again — never^-ta part 
any more. Why, what are you all crying for ?” ^ she 
added, looking round in surprise. “If you. go on so, it 
will make me cry, too, and that would not be right. 
One who is soon to behold God in heaven-,.. and to take- 
her place for ever at Mary’s feet, neither can nor ought 
to mourn for leaving the earth. Even yeurselves ought 
to be glad — though, I fear, you are not— knowing that 
I can do you more good there , and she pointed upwards^. 
“ than I ever could on earth.” 

“ Susie, dear,” said John, rising hastily from; the table, 
“ I can’t listen to you any longer. You’d make me cry 


THE DINNER PARTY. 


313 


like a baby. — I tell you, there’s no fear of your dying — 
if there were you couldn’t talk so. Keep up your heart, 
sister, and let us keep up ours.” 

“Spoken like an oracle, John,” said his father, after 
wiping away his tears ; “ sorrow’s time enough when it 
comes. I hope we’ll soon have our poor little Susie able 
to go about again.” Then lowering his voice to a whis- 
per, he said to his wife, who sat with her back to the 
sofa : “Don’t, for your life, let her see you crying. It 
always grieves her when she sees you down-hearted 
about her. Don’t, Nelly dear ! — don’t, for God’s sake 1 
I can hardly stand it myself. Just look at Edward and 
John — the two of them hanging over her, and each hold- 
ing a hand. But don’t look round. I don’t want Susie 
to see us watching them.” 

Mr. O’Callaghan had let his cards fall on the table, 
and sat gazing with moistened eyes on the beautiful pic- 
ture of fraternal love. “ Ah !” said he, in a low voice, 
“you ought to be proud and happy, both of you, my good 
friends, to see your children such as they are.” “ I say, 
Edward,” raising his voice, “ how did you get along at 
Blake’s? Were you blessed with the presence of Tom- 
kins ?” 

“ We were doubly blest, my dear sir,” replied Edward, 
fully appreciating the old gentleman’s kind intention, and 
willing to second it as far as he could ; “we had not 
only Tomkins, but Milmore, the Baptist Minister, and 
what is more, we had a regular set-to about eating meat 
^ on Friday.” 

I'f “ How' is that ?” said his father, 
j / “I w'ill tell you, sir, all about it, if Susie wull only pro- 
mise to laugh.”’ 

. Susan smiledj and pressed her brother’s -hand. Ed- 

14 


314 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


ward proceeded to give an account of his campaign with 
the ministers, carefully avoiding Henry’s part in it. 
But Tim put the question direct. 

“ Tell me, Edward, did Henry eat meat ?” 

“ I am sorry to say he did, sir. He says his stomach 
couldn’t do one day without it.” 

Humph !” said Tim, ironically. “ I thought as 
much — he’s mighty delicate, 1 know myself I And what 
about Eliza — did sht follow suit ?” 

“ I can’t say, indeed, sir,” replied Edward, evasively. 
“ I wasn’t near Eliza at table.” 

All the family were much amused at honest Joe 
Smith’s home-spun candor, and Edward’s announcement 
that he was coming to tea next evening was received with 
general satisfaction. 

“ But, mind, you’re not to have Ellie there,” said Tim, 
w'ith marked emphasis. 

“ I don’t mean to have her, sir,” said Edw^ard in reply. 
“ I know your opinions and those of my dear mother too 
well for that. But really Joe is such an honest, good- 
hearted fellow, and, withal, defended me so manfully, 
that I thought I could do no less than ask him to spend 
an evening at our house. I am glad to find that Mr. 
O’Callaghan, has no objection.” 

“Not the smallest, Edward. You know very wrell 
I never have, any objection to whatever you propose.” 

“ But, Edward,” said Margaret, with sly humor, 
“ why don’t you ask Arthur Brown some evening ? — it 
is hardly fair to treat him so coolly, and he so hot upon 
a certain affair that we all know of.” 

Edward looked at his sister, and w'as well pleased to 
see her laughing in the easiest way imaginable, without 
even the shade of a blush on her pretty cheek. She was 


THE DINNER PARTY. 


315 


going to say something, but her mother was too quick 
for her. 

“ Arthur Brown has no business here,” said she, while 
her cheek reddened with indignation. “ When our Elbe 
comes to choose a husband, it won’t be from among 
Protestants. I wonder at you, Maggie dear, ever to 
mention his name to her. I can answer for Elbe, that 
she wouldn’t have anything to say to one of his sort.” 

By this time Margaret and Eliza had finished their 
work, and went up stairs to see how it fitted, supporting 
Susan between them. “ See what a baby I am,” said 
she, with a smile, as she shook hands with Mr. O’Cal- 
laghan. “You see I can’t walk now without help. 
Times are changed, Mr. O’Callaghan, are they not ?” 

“ Changed, indeed, Susan,” said the kind-hearted old 
gentleman, with a tremulous voice. “ But this won’t 
last always — you’ll soon get strong again, with God’s 
help.” 

Susan shook her head, but said nothing. She knew 
Mr. O’Callaghan did not speak as he thought, but she 
felt grateful for his soothing kindness, and smiled her 
thanks as she left the room. 

There was silence in the room for a few moments, and 
it was Tim who first spoke, clearing his throat with a 
vigorous effort. “ Come, come, Nelly, this will never do 
j — bless my soul, woman ! it’s time enough to cry when 
^ we have reason — things may turn out better than wc 
think. What are you going to do about that poor Mrs. 
Dillon ? Ever since Hannah married that Sullivan, 

- things are going on, you know, worse and worse. We- 
can’t leave the poor old creature at the mercy of them 
vagabonds. It seems Watty has always a set of rowdies 
hanging about the house, drinking when they can get it, 


316 


B LAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


and cursing and swearing all the time like troopers. 
It’s best to take the poor woman from amongst them 
altogether.” 

“I was thinking, Tim,” said his wife, ^‘that if you 
had no objetion, I’d have her come and stay here for the 
little time she has to live. She wouldn’t be any great 
trouble in the house.” 

“ And if she were, too,” said Tim, quietly, “ it 
shouldn’t prevent us from taking her. She’s a desolate 
poor creature, and I’ll be right glad to give her a shelter. 
God bless you, Kelly, and go for her to-morrow 
morning. She’ll be as welcome as the flowers of 
May.” 

“ I’ll go for her if you wish, mother,” said John ; “I 
know where they live.” 

“ I know you do, John,” said his mother, with very 
excusable pride ; “ God bless you, my son, you have 
often gone there of your own accord unknown to any 
one. Mrs. Dillon told me of your visits. You may go 
for her to-morrow morning, and bring her here to spend 
the remainder of her days.” 

Mr. O’Callaghan took out his handkerchief and wiped 
his eyes, and said to himself : “ It is no wonder that they 
are all so happy and so prosperous.” And he said the 
same to Edward and Margaret on their way home. 


THE DOUBLE ORDINATION. 


317 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DOUBLE ORDINATION A HAPPY DEATH AN UNSEASON- 

ABLE VISIT. 

It was a bright, balmy day, about the end of April, a 
few weeks after the dinner-party at Henry Blake’s. 
There was another joyous commotion in Tim Flanagan’s 
household, and from early morning the whole family was 
up and stirring. Even Susan got out of bed about eight 
o’clock, and was supported down stairs to the family 
eating-room, though, to say the truth, she looked as if 
the effort was almost beyond her strength. All the 
family were present, including Edward, Margaret, and 
Mr. O’Callaghan, and when Susan entered, leaning on 
John’s arm, and followed closely by Elbe, every one had 
a word of congratulation, and a smile of kindly welcome 
for the poor invalid. 

“ Now, Susie !” cried Edward, when she was seated 
at her mother’s right hand in an easy-chair now, you 
see, the Ides of March are come— what have you to say 
for yourself, that we do not convict you as a false 
prophetess ?” 

“ Why, just this, Edward,” said Susie, with unwonted 
cheerfulness, “ that I am very happy to plead guilty to 


318 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


the charge. I am truly thankful to God and to our 
sweet Mother Mary that I am spared to see your Idts 
of March — or rather April V’ she added, with a touch of 
her former gaiety. “ Does Thomas know that I shall be 
present, sir turning to her father. 

“ Yes, my child, I sent him word by John yesterday 
morning.^^ 

“ So much the better, father; — now, mother dear, you 
shall see what a breakfast I can make.” 

Her mother smiled, and said she hoped to see her 
make a good breakfast, so as to strengthen her for the 
approaching ceremony, which must necessarily be a long 
one. They were still sitting at table when Dan Sheridan 
and his wife, with their son and daughter, made their 
appearance. 

“Why, then, what in the world are you about here ?” 
cried Dan, on entering ; “I thought you’d all be ready 
to start before now.” 

“Just listen to him,” said his wife from behind, 
“lecturing others, and, upon my credit, Tim, I had 
to keep at him hard and fast to have himself out so 
early.” 

“What wonder,” said Mike, “when we had Mrs. 
Reilly at breakfast ? Don’t be too hard on my father, 
mother dear. I’m sure you w'ouldn’t have him close his 
ears against Mrs. Reilly’s reminiscences — especially on a 
day like this, when we’re all in such high spirits !” 

“ What are you at now, Mike ?” inquired Mrs. Reilly, 
coming in by another door. “ I thought I heard you 
saying something about me. I suppose you’re cracking 
a joke at poor Sally’s expense.” 

Mike denied the charge with a look of such comical 
gravity that it set the youngsters all a-laughing. “ No, 


THE DOUBLE ORDINATION. 


319 


indeed, Sally dear !’? said Tim, “ he was only telling us 
bow you passed the time for them this morning with 
your droll stories. He says he nearly split his sides 
laughing at you.” 

“ He needn’t say any such thing,” replied Mrs. Reilly, 
with solemn gravity, “ for there was nothing laughable 
in what I told them. I was only just telling them about 
the ordination of my poor uncle. Father Flynn. God be 
merciful to his soul I That was a great sight all out I” 
and she wiped away a retrospective tear. 

“ Why, did you see it, then ?” demanded Tim, with a 
sly glance at his listeners. 

“ Oh ! of course I didn’t see it,” said Mrs. Reilly, so 
intent on her own recollections that she never noticed 
the catch in Tim’s w^ords. “ But if I didn’t see it, others 
did, and they say it was a grand affair, sure enough. 
But, Lord bless me, Susie dear ! is that you ?” said the 
kind-hearted creature, forgetting her proud remembrances 
in the joy of seeing Susan looking so well. “ Why, 
then, indeed. I’m glad to see you here this morning I I 
didn’t feel altogether w’ell myself, but I couldn’t miss the 
chance of seeing Peter and Thomas ordained. God 
bless them both ; I hope they’ll be a credit to us all !” 

Tom Reilly now made his appearance from the front 
parlor, where he and Mike had been consulting on 
a matter of some moment — “at least to one of us,” 
added Tom, significantly. “ I see your ears are all open 
for a secret, but you’re not going to hear it just yet. 
Get ready now as fast as you can, for you see it’s getting 
near the hour !” pointing to a handsome French time- 
piece on the mantel-shelf. 

A few minutes more and the whole party were walking 
up the grand aisle of St. Patrick’s cathedral, where the 


320 


BI. AKES AND FLANAGANS. 


ordination was to take place. They all placed them- 
selves in a conspicuous position, as near the sanctuary as 
they could, and great was their joy when they saw Tho- 
mas and Peter both glance towards them before the 
ceremony began. Two other young men received Holy 
Orders at the same time. Tears were coursing each 
other down the cheeks of the mothers and sisters of the 
young ecclesiastics, and even the sterner nature of Tim 
and Daniel was softened for the moment to woman’s 
tenderness, as they all united in fervent prayer for those 
dear ones who were entering on so holy a state. It was 
the summit of earthly joy to the fathers and mothers, and 
the inward feeling of their hearts was like that of the 
devout Simeon, permitted to assist at the presentation : 
“ Now, 0 Lord ! permit thy servant to depart in peace, 
for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.” 

When all were leaving the church, Susan lingered on 
her knees until roused by her mother’s gentle touch, and 
when they reached the door, she turned and looked back 
towards the altar with an indescribable expression of sad- 
ness in her heavy eyes. 

“ Why did you stand looking back so, Susie ?” said 
Margaret, in a low voice, as they stood side by side for 
a moment at the door. 

“ Can you not guess ?” said Susan, with a calm smile, 
“ I was taking leave of the church and the altar and Him 
who abides there as on a throne. I felt sad for a moment, 
as I thought of all the happy hours I spent there in sweet 
communion with my God ; but it is past now. I shall 
soon see Him in the full assembly of the saints — with his 
gracious assistance.” 

Next morning our tw'O young priests said their first 
mass for their respective parents, the tw^o families being 


THE DOUBLE ORDINATION. 


321 


again present, with the exception of Susan, who, fatigued 
after the exertion of the previous day, was unable to 
leave her bed. In the course of the afternoon she had 
the happiness of seeing Thomas, who cheered her with a 
promise that he would say mass for her next morning. 

“ And I, too,” said Peter, who was also present. 
“ Thank God we have it in our power to do that much 
for you, dear Susan.” 

“ And that is just what I have been wishing and pray- 
ing for ever since I saw where my illness was to end. It 
is so encouraging to think that my own brother can offer 
up the holy sacrifice on my behalf when I am called to 
the other world. Ah I yes, God is indeed good to me !” 

Tim then entered the room, and his son said : “ How 
happy we were yesterday morning to see you all present. 
But I was sorry to find that none of my Aunt Blake’s 
family were there. How did that happen ?” 

“ Oh I that was nothing strange if you knew but all,” 
returned his father. “ They have no great taste for such 
things.” 

“ But, perhaps, you did not send them word, father ?” 

Yes, but I did, Thomas ; I apprised the old people 
myself, and sent John to tell Henry. The same Henry 
is going on at a rate on the broad road. He has no 
more religion in him than that table.” 

“ I hope you are mistaken, my dear father,” said the 
young priest, with real concern. “ I must go and see 
Henry some of these days, and have a talk with him. 
Things may not be quite so bad as your friendly fears 
lead you to believe.” 

“Well! you’ll see. I wish I had a better story to 
tell, for, God knows, I once loved Harry Blake as if he 
were my own child j but he won’t let me love him now, 

14 ^ 


S22 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


do as 1 will. But what do you think of Susan, Mr. 
Sheridan ? — Bless ray soul !^’ he added, in a soliloquizing 
tone ; “ isn’t it strange to think that little Peter Sheri- 
dan and our Tora are both of them priests — sure enough, 
it seems like a dream !” 

Mr. Sheridan laughed, as he replied : “Yery true, Mr. 
Flanagan. It seems barely possible that two such little 
urchins have become reverend personages. God grant 
us grace,” he added, with sudden recollection, “ to edify 
the faithful by our holy lives ! If we are ministers of 
God to-day, my dear sir, we owe it, under God, to the 
Christian foundation laid in our early years by our good 
parents and the teachers they provided for us. But you 
asked me, sir, what I thought of Susan. I find her 
doing well.” He and Thomas exchanged looks which did 
not escape the patient. 

“ I understand you, Mr. Sheridan !” said she, with a 
cheerful smile. “You think I shall soon be ready for my 
journey. So I think myself. Now, Thomas, I want 
you, before you go home, to call upon dear Sister Magda- 
len, and my own sweet Sister Mary Teresa. Oli ! how 
that name makes my heart throb ! It was she who pre- 
pared me for my first communion and for confirmation. 
They promised to be here, if possible, when I am setting 
out on my long journey. Tell them to come to see me 
to-morrow evening, if they can at all, for I do want to 
see them again, and I might be disappointed after all. 
They will be very glad to see you both, for they always 
loved Elbe and me and Annie Sheridan — dear Annie 
Sheridan I I hear she is to be married soon to Mr. 
O’Callaghan’s nephew, Lawrence Daly. May God bless 
her and him, and they will be blessed, for they are both 
good and pious I” 


A HAPPY DEATH. 


323 


Tim had walked to the window to conceal his emotion, 
and Peter whispered his friend that he feared Susan was 
talking too much. “ Siie looks quite faint, said he ; “I 
think we had better call your mother and leave her in her 
hands.” 

The two friends were not long gone when Dr. Power 
came in. He had not seen Susan for some days, and 
was hardly prepared to see her so much changed. He 
thought it advisable to administer the last sacraments 
without delay, promising to bring the holy Viaticum next 
morning. “ And now good-bye, Susan,” said he. “ I do 
not bid you keep up your heart, for I think you have no 
need of encouragement. You have fought the good 
fight, my child, and are rather to be envied than pitied 
for being called so soon to receive your reward. It is 
these,” he added, turning to her now weeping parents ; 
“it is these whom I pity most. And yet, my dear friends, 
yours is, after all, an enviable lot. Think of the death 
of Hugh Dillon and others of your young acquaintances, 
and you will see that God is good to you. Your dear 
Susan is indeed going to leave you, but you may reason- 
ably hope that she is going to "the better land,’ there 
to await your coming. Rejoice in the Lord, my friends, 
for that he gave you grace to bring up your children for 
places in the everlasting mansions I And you, Ellen, let 
your sister’s early and (I trust, it will be) happy death 
encourage you to persevere in the way of holiness, that 
you may be re-united again in the world of spirits !” So 
saying, he left the room, leaving behind liim an indescrib- 
able feeling of tranquil resignation. 

Next morning Susan received the Blessed Sacrament, 
for the last time, and about four o’clock in the afternoon 


324 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


she passed from this world to the next. Her last moments 
were of the most exquisite happiness ; her mother held 
one hand, and Sister Mary Teresa the other, while Sister 
Ma.f^dalen held the crucifix before her glazing eyes, so 
that her last glance fell upon it. All the family knelt 
around in fervent prayer, and the prayers for the dying 
were read by Thomas. Susan had taken leave of every 
one, and received the last blessing of her father and 
mother at her own request. It was a beautiful sight to 
see the tranquil and happy death of that fair young girl 
surrounded by loving hearts and tearful eyes, and fervent 
suppliants petitioning God on her behalf. She was pass- 
ing away from earth in the freshness and beauty of her 
youth, and there was no horror, nothing painful in the 
transition. The suflferings of long months, borne with 
pious resignation to the divine will, had gradually detached 
the soul from the world, and exhausted the strength of 
the body, so that Susan’s death was almost imperceptible. 
Some one made a slight motion, and Sister Magdalen 
made a sign with her hand for all to be still. The next 
moment she laid the crucifix on the table ; she and Sister 
Mary Teresa exchanged glances, and the latter, stooping 
down, kissed the marble-like brow of the sleeper, and 
proceeded at once to close her mouth and eyes. This 
was the signal for the long pent-up floods of grief to burst 
forth, and from every corner of the room there arose the 
voice of wailing. But the two nuns and the young priest, 
raising their voices above the rest, said : “ Why should 
we weep for such a death ? Blessed are the dead who 
die in the Lord !” 

Then Thomas led his father and mother from the room, 
and, waiting in the parlor, they found Henry Blake. Ho 


THE DINNER PARTY. 


325 


was paler than usual, and a tear was in his eye as he took 
his uncle’s hand, and then his aunt’s, and pressed them 
within his own. 

“ I’m sorry for you both — indeed, I am I” he said ; 
“ she was a sweet girl 1” 

“ None too sweet for heaven, Henry !” observed Thomas. 

“True, cousin, most true,” said Henry, with visible 
emotion. “ What a happy death was hers !” 

. “ Yes, unutterably happy — but did you see— I mean 
were you present ?” 

“ I was. I heard this afternoon, just about an hour 
ago, that poor Susan was not expected to live over the 
night, so I came here at once, and made my way to the 
room where you were all assembled round her bed. After 
all, there is something in religion ; those nuns looked like 
angels on either side of the bed. Indeed, the whole scene 
was unspeakably solemn and beautiful.” 

“ God bless you, Harry ! God bless you !” said his 
uncle, addressing him, for the first time in many years, by 
the familiar name of his boyhood. “ If Susie’s death is 
of any benefit to your soul, in the way of exciting whole- 
some reflection, I for one would be well content. That 
is what we have all to go through one day or another, 
and if we forget it, so much the worse for us !” 

Mrs. Flanagan said nothing. Her only feeling for the 
moment was one of desolation ; her child was dead, and, 
like Rachel, “ she would not be comforted.” She hardly 
noticed Henry, but silently took her son’s offered arm, 
and moved with a heavy heart and a heavy step to her 
chamber, where she might weep in solitude and silence, 
and offer up her prayers for the beloved dead. 

Mr. and Mrs. Blake soon after ^carae in, and Henry 
took his departure, saying that he would come back with 


326 


B L A K E S AND ’F f, A X A G A N S . 


Jane in the course of the evening. All that day and the 
next Henry was a sadder aiui a wiser man, but, as for- 
merly on the occasion of Hugh Dillon’s dreadful death, 
the impression gradually wore away, and after a while he 
used to laugh at bis own “ softness,” as he called it, and 
he would not thank any one who reminded him of his 
having likened the nuns to angels. Henry had no idea 
of passing for a devotee, and so the salutary impression 
made on his mind by Susan’s death, was speedily followed 
by a strong reaction that made him less of a devotee than 
he ever was, and that was very little at the best. 

About a fortnight after Susan’s death, Mrs. Blake went 
to an early mass one Sunday morning, and went to see 
her daughter during the' time of high mass. The truth “ 
was, she wanted to find out whether Eliza still went to . 
mass at all, having had reason to fear that she neglected 
even that solemn obligation. She was agreeably surprised, j 
then, when the servant told her Mrs. Thomson was gone 
to church. 

“Very good, Mary, very good; and what church is 
she gone to ?” 

“ Oh, then, indeed, ma’am, she’s gone with the master 

to his church — whatever church that is. She didn’t feel 

very well this morning, and so he persuaded her to go 

with him, because his church was a great deal nearer than i 

her own. To tell you the truth, ma’am,” added the warm- ■ ^ 

hearted Irish girl, “ the mistress didn’t say much ngainst ! 

him. ' You’d just know by her that she only wanted to '! 

be coaxed. I’m afraid it’s a bad business, ma’am. I was . , 

* '15 1 

out at six o’clock mass this morning, thanks be to God, « 
and when I came in it’s what she scolded me for going J| 
out so early. “ You’ll not be able to keep your eyes open 
all day,” says she to me, “ and here we are to have all i 


AN U N S E A S 0*N A B LE VISIT. 


32t 


the Thomson family to dinner. You should have slept an 
hour longer, when you were up so late last night.” 
“ Why, ma’am,” says I to her, ‘‘ if I didn’t get up an’ go 
to six o’clock mass, I couldn’t get out at all.” “ Even 
so,” says she, “ what great harm would it be to miss mass 
for one day ?” “ It would be that much harm, ma’am,” 

say 1, for myself was nettled at her ; “ it would be that 
much harm, that I wouldn’t do it for all you’re mistress 
of. No, ma’am ! I know I’m foolish an’ light enough in 
some things, an’ I’m a poor ignorant girl into the bargain, 
but I wouldn’t miss mass, ma’am, for all the money in New 
York.” She gave a look at me that was as good as a 
process, ma’am, but she didn’t say another word. I think 
the master overheard all I said, for I heard him and her 
talking and laughing inside at a great rate. Depend 
upon it, ma’am, she’ll not be long a Catholic — indeed, 
she’s not much of one now.” 

Mrs. Blake affected to be quite indignant, and told the 
girl to be more careful of what she said. “ Go off to 
your work,” said she, “ and I’ll wait here till your mis- 
tress comes in. I’m not at ail pleased with you, Mary, 
to make such remarks about her — it’s what I didn’t 
expect from you.” 

“ Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to offend you, but I only told 
you God’s truth, so you needn’t take it ill. Humph I” 
she added, by way of soliloquy, as she descended the 
kitchen-stairs ; “ Humph ! I suspect it’s partly your own 
fault, an’ that’s what makes you feel so bad about it. 
Nobody ever turns out like that, unless they were brought 
up without any religion. Ignorant as I am in other things, 
I’ll be bound I know my religion better than missis does, 
with all her fine lamin’. Humph ! lamin’, indeed ! — to 
the devil I pitch such lamin’ ; what use is it if it doesn’t 


328 


BLAKES AND FLaNAGANS. 


show US the way to heaven?’’ and Mary took up the 
poker and gave her fire such a stirring up that it “ won- 
dered what ailed it,” as she said herself. Perhaps there 
was some vague connection in her mind between it and 
the “fine lamin’” which she had been apostrophizing so 
afTectionately. 

Mrs. Thomson was quite surprised, and it would seem, 
not very agreeably so, on finding her mother in possession 
of the parlor. 

“Why, dear me, ma,” throwing herself gracefully on 
the sofa, with her bonnet dangling by its ties from her 
hand ; “ dear me ! who would ever think of you being 
here so early. Zachary, do ring the bell. 1 wonder 
what that stupid girl is about ; I want her to take my 
things up stairs. How tiresome these Irish servants 
are !” The bell was rung, Mary appeared, and “ the 
things” were sent up stairs. 

“ I just came to see how you were this morning,” said 
the mother, trying to keep down her anger, “ but I see I 
might have saved myself the trouble ; you were at 
church, I perceive — was it at mass you were ?” 

Zachary laughed, and took the word out of Eliza’s 
mouth. “ Oh ! yes, Mrs. Blake 1 she was at Mr. Tom- 
kins’s mass with me.. Dr. Power’s mass was too far off, 
so I prevailed on dear Eliza to come with me. We had 
a capital time of it, I assure you, that old Tomkins is 
such a queer customer. He has got such droll notions 
of his own. You must come some day and hear him.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Blake, drily, “ I’d rather not. 
Eliza, why did you not try to go to mass — don’t ” 

“Why, really, mother, I didn’t feel able to go — it 
is such a long walk,” said Eliza, with listless indiffe- 
rence. 


AN UNSEASONABLE VISIT. 


329 


“Then, why didn’t you stay at home?” was the next 
question. 

“Oh ! ma, that would never do ! one feels that it is 
only proper to go to church on the Sabbath-day to wor- 
ship God. And then Zachary wished me to go with him 
— he says he can pray far better when I am by his side. 
Didn’t you say so, Zachary ?” 

“Well ! as to that, my love,” replied Zachary, with his 
light-hearted laugh, I never do pray much at any time 
— that’s a fact,_ but I certainly feel better in church or 
out of church when you are with me.” Eliza rewarded 
this speech by a look of exquisite tenderness. Zachary 
felt encouraged to proceed. 

“ Now, my good and most-respected mother-in-law, you 
must not be too hard on Eliza. You see she is not very 
strong just noiv, and you ought to remember that you 
were often in poor health yourself.” 

“ I was never in such poor health that I’d willingly 
miss mass when I was able to go out at all.” 

“ Yes, but times are changed, my dear madam — that 
was in Ireland, you know, and all that sort of thing was 
quite the fashion there. It is altogether different here I” 
He then- left the room to look for a certain newspaper he 
wanted, and Mrs. Blake began to reason with her daugh- 
ter. At first she could make little or no impression ; but, 
after a while, Eliza was brought to confess that she knew 
it was wTong to stay from mass — 

“ Or to go to any heretical place of worship,” inter- 
rupted her mother. 

“ Oh ! as to that, I cannot see what great harm it does 
one to go now and then to a Protestant Church with 
one’s husband. However, I shall try to go to mass for 
the time to come — whenever I feel able.” 


330 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


With this promise her mother was fain to appear satis- 
fied, and so the matter rested for that time. Mrs. Blake 
found out that it was time she was at home, and told 
Eliza she would expect Zachary and her in the afternoon. 
“You must spend the evening with us,” said she, “for 
we are so lonely sometimes that we hardly know what to 
do with ourselves.” 

“ In that case, you must bring pa here, ma !” said 
Eliza, “for Henry and Jane promised to take tea with 
us, so you see we can’t go.” 

“ Are the Pearsons coming 

“ Yes, ma, I rather think so.” 

“Well, you’ll have enough without us, Eliza, so we’ll 
go to Tim’s. We’re always welcome there, no matter 
what company they have. Thank God, we have one door 
open.” 

“Why, ma, how you do talk! — I’m sure you’re 
always welcome here, too.” 

“ Oh 1 to be sure we are. We know that very well,” 
said Mrs. Blake, with a smile of doubtful meaning bright- 
ening her still handsome face. “ Good bye, Eliza, dear j 
don’t forget your promise.” 

When she was gone, Zachary came in with his paper 
in his. hand. 

“ DoYt forget your promise, Eliza, dear !” he said, 
mimicking her mother’s tone. “ Be sure you leave your 
comfortable bed next Sunday morning at half-past five 
to the minute, and go right off to church. Be a good 
girl, now, Eliza, and do what I tell you, and I’ll get 
Father Power, or some other father, to give you — a lea- 
ther medal !” 

Eliza laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder with 
her fan, and said, “ I think you deserve a leather medal 


AN UNSEASONABLE VISIT. 


331 


for your rare success iu the art of mimicking. What 
would ma say if she’ heard you — or pa, either?” 

“ Why, I suppose the old Milesian blood would take 
fire, and, perhaps, explode. I’ll take good care they 
don’t either of them hear me, I know the Irish too well 
for that. They are like certain animals I could mention 
— stroke them, and they will do anything, but once cross 
them, and the game is up.’’ 

“You seem to forget that I have some of that same 
Milesian blood in my veins,” observed Eliza, with a some- 
what heightened color. 

“ Not at all,” returned her husband ; “ I am mindful 
of the fact, but your Irish blood, Eliza, has been long 
since refined into good American blood. You just retain 
enough of the Celtic fire to make you a charming wife 
for Zachary Thomson.” 

In the evening, when the whole family of the Pearsons 
and Thomsons, with Henry and Jane, were assembled in 
the same room,* Zachary told, as a capital joke, how Mrs. 
Blake came in the forenoon to see after Eliza. 

“ To see after her,” said Henry ; “ how do you mean ?” 

“ Why, to find out whether she was gone to mass or 
not. I fancy the old lady had a pious fit this morning 
that made her undertake such a journey at such a time. 
Wasn’t it rich, Henry ?” 

Henry winced a little, and replied with some asperity. 
“ I really don’t find anything either rich or ridiculous in 
it. It is nothing but what a Catholic mother might be 
expected to do, under the circumstances. The only infer- 
ence to be drawn, Zachary, is, that my mother suspects 
some foul play I” He laughed as he spoke, but there was 
a certain bitterness in the tone, as well as in the words 
themselves. 

“ Foul play I” repeated Zachary, with a flushed cheek 


332 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


and a kindling eye. “ What foul play do you mean, 
Henry Blake V’ 

“ Why, in regard to religion — what else could I 
mean ?’’ 

“ And, pray, what right has your mother to pry into 
our religious affairs ? .1 should think Eliza is old enough 
to take care of herself in such matters. How would you 
like if Mrs. Pearson there were to come putting in her 
head every once in a while like Paul Pry, asking : “ Are 
you all good, regular folk here ? Do you go to Church 
every Sunday, and say your prayers every night and 
morning There was something absurd in the case thus 
put, especially as all present knew that good Mrs. Pear- 
son was the very last-person that would trouble herself 
about any such matter, and the consequence was that 
every one laughed heartily. Mrs. Pearson hastened to 
disclaim any such intention, and declared herself quite 
willing to let people look after their own spiritual 
affairs. 

“Good gracious, Zachary-! what an idea! no, no, 
Henry, you may be sure you will never see me in such a 
ridiculous position ! — turning grand inquisitor, indeed ! 
I leave that to others who have no American blood to 
boast of !” 

“ But apropos to religion, Henry,” resumed Zachary, 
with a furtive glance at his father, “ I hear you were 
quite pious yourself on the occasion of Susan Flanagan’s 
death. They say you actually went to confession in your 
Uncle Tim’s parlor that morning.” 

“ I deny it,” said Henry, laughing, “ I have other fish 
to fry.” 

“ Do you mean to say, then, that you did not go to 
confession ?” 

“ I do mean to say so. I have never bent my knee to 


AN UNSEASONABLE VISIT, 


333 


a priest, as my Uncle Flanagan would say, since — let me 
see ” 

“ Since you and I went to College, Henry — eh 

“ Exactly I I leave that part of the business to my 
old mother. Indeed she has done the confessing of the 
whole family for the last ten or twelve years. Wlien I 
was a boy, 1 used to go every once in a while, and settle 
accounts with the priest, but since I came to be a man, I 
have somehow got out of the way of such things.” 

“I rather think it must be queer work,” observed 
Pearson, “ that same confessing of one’s sins. I should 
never know how to .set about it. Well for me I wasn’t 
brought up a Papist, for that’s something I think I could 
never get along with.” 

“ But you see, my dear sir, there are many Catholics 
who do not go to confession ; witness myself, and many 
of my professional acquaintances.” 

“ True, Henry,” he replied, thoughtfully, “but I always 
had an idea — I don’t know how I got it — that all Papists 
where obliged to go and tell their sins to a priest at cer- 
tain times.” 

“ Certainly sir, the Church of Home does command her 
members to go to confession now and then, but, of course, 
we are not obliged to obey. It is still optional with us 
whether to go or stay.” 

“Well, you know best. After all, the matter is of 
little importance ; these old relics of mediaeval, if not 
heathen superstition, are fast disappearing — at least from 
our favored country. The number of their votaries is 
every day growing less, and if it were not for the yearly 
influx of these ignorant Irish emigrants, with their old 
legends and traditions, we should have had, years ago, 
a thoroughly evangelized nation. Those inveterate Irish 


S34 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Papists are the heaviest clog on our national progress ; 
they really are.” 

“ Why, pa I” said Jane, “ what a dull topic you have 
got ! — do let us have something of more general interest. 
Eliza and I are really sick of that tiresome religion 1” 

“Bravo, Jane I” cried Zachary, “you're just of my 
notion — give religion to the dogs,” say I, “ I’ll none of 
it !” 

Religion, thus voted a bore, was kicked down stairs, 
and the conversation turned on other topics of greater 
moment, as the company, one and all, agreed. 


MR. PEARSON’S IDEA OF CONSCIENCE. 335 


CHAPTER XX. 

MR. Pearson’s idea of conscience — tom reilly’s secret 
A reconciliation MIKE SHERIDAN’s MARRIAGE. 

In the course of the next week, Henry Blake happened 
to hear that there was to be a grand celebration of some 
kind in St. Peter’s Church, on the following Sunday. 
He, accordingly, went round amongst his friends and 
made up a party “ for St. Peter’s.” .The Thomsons and 
the Pearsons had long been anxious to hear the Bishop 
preach, and here was a golden opportunity, for the Bishop 
was to preach at High Mass, and then there was one of 
Mozart’s Grand Masses to be sung. Altogether it was 
to be a great occasion, so the Thomsons and Pearsons 
were all to go under the guidance of Mr. Henry T. 
Blake, who engaged to find comfortable seats for them. 

Sunday came, and our party set out in good time for 
St. Peter’s, so as to be in for the opening ceremonies, as 
Henry said. Zach Thomson and his sister w^ere located 
in Tim Flanagan’s pew, to the great annoyance of Ellie, 
•who ^at next them. “ They were really a cause of dis- 
traction to me,” Ellie used to say, “ with their talking and 
pointing, and asking questions about everything they saw, 
just as if they were in a theatre. I hope Henry Blake 
will never ask us for seats again, for any of his Protestant 


336 


BLAKE S AND F L A'-N A G A N S . 


friends. If he does, I am determined to go to an early 
mass that day, so as to avoid them.” 

They were all very attentive during the sermon, but 
when it was over, and the music Iiad again commenced, 
great was Ellie’s distress and vexation to see Zach turn 
his back to the altar so as to face the music. Others of 
the party did the same, but Henry, as usual, took the mat- 
ter very coolly. Reclining with graceful negligence in a 
corner of the pew,, his attention was divided between 
watching the effect of the music on his companions, and 
pointing out to their observation the various movements 
going on in the Sanctuary. , When Mass was over, they 
all walked down the aisle together, talking in an audible 
voice of what they had seen and 'heard. The Flanagans 
staid behind, unwilling to leave the Church in such disedi- 
fying company. 

Well ! what do you think' of that sermon, Mr. Thom- 
son ?” said Henry, as they walked along together after 
leaving the church. The Bishop preaches well— don’t he?” 

‘‘ Yes, he is considerable of a preacher,” said Thom- 
son, with a sagacious shake of the head ; “but I don’t 
altogether like his way of talking. He seems to assume 
too much authority. Now, if we had a minister to stand 
upland talk in any such way— to tell us we must do so 
and so — why, the fact is, we would send him about his 
business before the week was out. We would show him 
that we were the masters, not he ?” 

Henry laughed; and was about to make some humo- 
rous reply, when Edward Flanagan and his father-in-law 
came up. Margaret was not with them, as she had been* ' 
to an earlier mass. 


“So you were allat St. Peter’s,-” 
smile. 



m 


MR. Pearson’s idea of conscience. 33t 


“ Yes, and we were just talking of the sermon,” said 
Henry. “ Mr. Thomson finds fault with the Bishop for 
speaking too much like a master.” 

“ And- why not said Edward, quickly. “ He is 
really our master — our master in the science of salvation, 
and we Catholics are proud to acknowledge our subjec- 
tion to such masters. It is by their teachings that we 
hope to save our souls ?” 

“ Talk of saving souls,” said Mr. Pearson. “ I can’t 
forgive your church for teaching that there is no salva- 
tion beyond her pale. My belief is, that salvation can 
be obtained in every church, or even without a church, if 
men are only faithful to their duties as rational crea- 
tures.” 

“ And, pray, how are men to know those duties ?” 
asked Edward, at the same time endeavoring to repress 
a smile. “ What is to be our rule or guide ?” 

“ Why, conscience, to be sure I-^-what other guide do 
we require ?” 

‘‘It is hardly sufficient, my dear sir!” said Edward, 
so gravely, that O’Callaghan could notjhelp laughing. 

“Hardly sufficient I” repeated Mr. Pearson, in undis- 
guised amazement. “ Ho* you mean to tell me, young 
man, that conscience ds , not the inward monitor -; the 
beacon, as it were, that guides to the heavenly port ? 
Do you Papists hdieve in conscience, or do you not ?” 

“Wc do ll’; said .Edward, calmly and emphatically. 
“ But wUl lyou have the goodness to tell me, in the first 

i place, ,Hwba,t you -mean by conscience?” 

“Why, the voice of God speaking within us,- teaching 
■ us,, to-do good-and shun evil.” 

“ How, then, does it happen that its dictates are not 
“ alwuys .the, same ? — How is it that couscience.forbids the 


338 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Jew to eat pork, and the Mahometan to drink wine, yet 
permits the Christian to do both ? Tiie conscientious 
Mahometan is bound to keep as many wives as he can 
manage to support ; the Mormon conscience is equally 
accommodating ; while your conscience and mine allow 
but one wife. You, as a Baptist, conscientiously believe 
that infant Baptism is not necessary, while I, as a 
Catholic, believe that it is essentially and absolutely 
necessary. How do you account for all these discrepan- 
cies on the part of conscience, if it be, as you say, the 
unerring voice of God ?” 

The others all laughed, for Pearson was rather dog- 
matical at times, and this very point was one on which 
he often held forth, insisting on it that the dictates of 
conscience were the only effective sermons, and that man 
had light enough within himself to insure his salvation, 
if he would but follow its revelations. 

“ How do you like that, Pearsou V’ said his friend 
Thomson. “ I guess youVe met your match this time !” 

“ A slippery jade i's that same conscience,” observed 
O’Callaghan. “ Here in this very city there are, to my 
knowledge, many eminent men, whose conscience tells 
them from day to day what the old Quaker said to his 
son, by way of a parting advice : ‘ Make money, 
Obadiah — hpnestly, if thee can— but be sure thee 
make it.’ ” 

“ You may laugh as you will, gentlemen,” said 
Pearson, testily, “but I say again, that all religion is 
founded on conscience. , Conscience is the divine law 
written on the table of the heart.” 

“ Why,' my dear sir,” said Edward, “th.at is just what 
you told us before, though in different words. Con- 
science is, according to you, the divine law — the Inw and 


MR. Pearson’s idea of conscience. 339 

the Gospel — and the divine law is — conscience. Some 
other time I shall be happy to renew this interesting 
subject, but, for the present, we part here. Henry, 
could you not furnish Mr. Pearson, at your leisure, with 
some useful hints on conscience ? For instance, it would 
be interesting to examine what manner of conscience 
poor Hugh Dillon had, and how he came by it. I fear 
the Common Schools, and your favorite system of mixed 
education, ‘ could a tale unfold ’ regarding the peculiar 
bent of many a conscience. Good morning, ladies and 
gentlemen !” So he took the old gentleman’s arm and 
walked away, with a bow and a smile leaving the others 
to think and say what they pleased about himself and 
his peculiar opinions. Mr. Pearson was by no means 
sorry to get rid of so close a reasoner, and Henry was 
nettled by his cousin’s parting words. Perhaps he felt 
that the cap fitted him too well for his self-complacency, 
which was usually wonderfully easy and comfortable. 
Thomson and the ladies were all amused, and had no 
particular feeling except that of good-humored satisfac- 
tion at Pearson’s discomfiture. 

“ A queer sort of conscience he must have himself 1” 
said Pearson, pettishly, as he took a seat in an easy-chair 
in Henry’s drawing-room. 

“ Of whom do you speak, pa ?” inquired Jane. 

“Why, of that young Flanagan, to be sure. His 
conscience won’t allow him to eat meat on Friday, and it 
makes him kneel to a fellow-man to ask pardon for liis 
sins. Now, I have not the smallest doubt but he prays 
to the Virgin, and all the other old Saints that Papists 
' make so much to-do about. Do you really think he 
! docs, Henry ?” he added, with solemn anxiety depicted 
; ! on his face. 




340 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Pm quite sure of it,” said Henry, laughing. “ You 
could never understand the mysteries of Edward Flana- 
gan’s conscience — ^^it is a perfect labyrinth, my dear sir. 
Only think of his believing it a grievous, nay, I might 
almost say, an unpardonable sin, to miss mass on Sunday. 
You couldn’t get him to stay outside the church-door five 
minutes before service commenced, on any conceivable 
account. No matter how interesting the subject on which 
he was conversing, the minute he reaches the church-door, 
in he goes. And as for entering a Protestant place of 
worship, his conscience would denounce that in toto. It 
is just the same with the whole family of the Flanagans. 
They are a good sort of people in their way, but so pre- 
cise in their notions of religion, so exceedingly conscien- 
tious, if you will, that you cannot get one of them an 
inch from the track.” 

A little later in the afternoon, Mike Sheridan called at 
Tim Flanagan’s, and, after some preliminary conversation, 
asked Tim, in a low voice, if he couldn’t have a word 
with him and Mrs. Flanagan in private. 

“ Certainly, Mike !” said Tim, standing up. “ Nelly 
dear,” to his wife, “ Mike wants to speak to us. Come 1 
into the next room a minute.” 

“Never mind, father,” said Ellie, with a mischievous, ^ 
smile, “ John and I will go instead. It is something' n 
new,” she added, glancing at Mike’s blushing face ; “ it j 
is something new for Mike Sheridan to have a secret. | 
You may be sure it is worth keeping. Is it not, Mike ?’^ i 
But Mike did not choose to answer. I 

John coughed significantly as he followed his sister j 
from the room. When they were gone, Mike seemed at ! 
a loss how to begin his communication. He walked to j 
the window, sat down again, looked here and there round 


TOM REILLY S SECRET. 


341 


the room, in search of courage, but courage had forsaken 
him, and was not to be so easily recovered. Tim and 
Nelly looked at each other and smiled. Nelly nodded to 
her husband, as much as to say : “ Can't you help him 
out with it ?” whereupon Tim cleared his throat with his 
hand to his mouth, and took the initiative. 

“ I think 1 can partly guess what you have to say to 
us, Mike, Tom Reilly told us of a certain little matter 
that would all go on swimmingly, only for a certain little 
difficulty that stands in the way. Eh I Mike, am I right 
or am I wrong 

The ice thus broken, Mike became quite resolute all of 
a sudden, and dashed into his subject with a sort of desr 
peration. “ You’re quite right, Mr. Flanagan, that’s just 
what brought me here. As Tom has told you so much, 
it will save me some trouble. Now what do you think 
yourselves of Alice Byrne — you know herself and all 
belonging to her ?” 

“Yes, indeed, Mike, we know them all — root and 
branch,” said Tim, “ for they’re from our own parish at 
home, and we never knew anything but what was good 
of them. They belong to the real old stock ” 

“ So Mrs. Reilly tells me,” said Mike, with a smile. 
“ She seems well acquainted with the family-tree, and 
thinks highly of it.” 

“ And as for Alice herself,” observed Mrs. Flanagan, 
“she’s a nice, modest, sensible girl, and I’m sure will 
make a good wife. One thing is greatly in her favor, 
she was brought up by a pious, virtuous mother.” 

“Well now,” said Mike, who was gradually getting 
over his bashfulness, “ I’m glad to find that you both 
think so well of Alice, but, unfortunately, our people are 


342 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

altogether opposed to the Byrnes, and, of course, I could 
never think of marrying Alice without their consent. It 
seems my father and Mr. Byrne had a sort of a falling- 
out long ago, when both of them used to take a little 
drop, and they never altogether made it up. I know my 
mother thinks well enough of Alice, but she doesn’t like 
to say against my father. Now you know, Mr. Flanagan, 
it is not very hard to bring my dear father to reason — 
his heart is so good — so I just want you to put in a word 
for me. He may speak a little hard or so, at first, against 
the Byrnes, but you know as well as I do that he has no 
* malice or wickedness in him against any human being, 
and if all fails you, you can bring him round at once on 
the score of religion. He’ll not go beyond that. You 
may tell him, too, that it would make me so happy if he’d 
only give his consent, for I’m sure Alice Byrne is just the 
girl that would suit me.” 

“Weil I and how does her pulse beat ?” asked Tim, 
slily. “ I hope she has no dislike to the Sheridans — eh I 
Mike ?” 

Mike reached over to the table for his hat, and the 
smile that brightened his handsome features was more 
expressive than any words. 

“ Oh ! as to that,” said he, twirling his hat between 
his hands, “ as to that, I must only take my chance. I’m 
willing to try my luck with Alice.” 

“ But why don’t you get Father Power to talk to your 
father,” said Tim. “ I’ll do what I can, and I have great 
hopes of succeeding ; but you know yourself that one 
word from the priest would do more than if any one else 
was preaching for a year to him.” 

“I know that well enough,” replied Mike ; “but if I 


TOM Reilly’s secret. 


343 


can help it, I don’t want to speak to Father Power about 
it till I get my father’s consent. I’m leaving that for the 
last chance.” 

“ And why so, Mike ?” said Mrs. Flanagan. 

“ Why, because, ma’am, I don’t want to let Father 
Power know anything about the coolness — at least, if I 
can help it. He might think ill of father, on account of 
it, and I’d be sorry for that, for he’s a good, kind father 
as any in New York.” 

“ God bless you, Mike,” said Mrs. Flanagan, “ you 
were always a good son, and your luck will be the better 
for it.” 

Tim said nothing, but he shook Mike’s hand so warmly 
at parting, that Mike went away with the full conscious- 
ness of his approbation. 

Mike had hardly turned the corner of the street when 
in came Mrs. Reilly, brimful of the news. Mrs. Flanagan 
would have pursuaded her to take off her bonnet and 
stay a while, but no ! she was on her way to vespers, 
and just came out a little before Tom to step in and see 
how they all were. 

“But that’s true,” said Mrs. Reilly, as if suddenly 
remembering something, “ did you hear of the match that’s 
on foot ?” 

“What match ?” said Tim, evasively. 

“ Why, Mike Sheridan and Alice Byrne. They say it’s 
going to be, for certain. What are you laughing at, 
Ellie — you and John ?” 

“We were thinking of poor Tom,” said John ; “isn’t 
it too bad that Mike should cut him out, and he the first 
in the field ?” 

Mrs. Flanagan looked reproachfully at the young 
people, but it was too late. Mrs. Reilly’s dignity was 


344 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


already up in arms. “ You’re under a great mistake, 
John,” said she, sharply; ‘‘Tom Reilly has no such 
notions in his head. If every one thought as little of 
marriage as he does, it might be well for them — d’ye 
hear that now ? And, another thing, John, if Tom 
Reilly thought fit to look after Alice Byrne, it isn’t 
Mike Sheridan she’d be taking, though I have nothing 
to say to Mike — he’s a very good lad— in his own way.” 

“But he isn’t Tom Reilly, Sally dear!” said Tim, 
with his usual smile. 

“ You’ve just said it, Tim. I’ll say that for Tom 
Reilly — though I am his mother, and by right shouldn’t 
say it — that there’s not many girls in New York city 
good enough for him. Nobody knows his goodness as 
well as I do,” added the mother, with a flushed cheek 
and a moistened eye. 

The smiles were all banished in an instant, and there 
was no irony, only all sincerity in the general assurance 
that Tom’s virtues were known and appreciated by all 
who knew him. 

“Well, thank God for that same,” said the widow, 
earnestly. “ It would ill become him to be anything 
else, for God knows he has no bad blood in him — not a 
drop. He had as decent a man to his father as ever 
stepped in shoe leather.” 

“ And as to his mother,” said the incorrigible Tim, 
“we’ll say nothing. She’s anything — but a decent 
woman I” So saying he made his escape through a 
neighboring door, leaving poor Mrs. Reilly laughing 
heartily. Mrs. Flanagan had not yet recovered her 
former cheerfulness, but she could not help smiling. 

“Well I just listen to what he says ! he couldn’t live 
without his joke, I do believe.” 


345 


TOM REILLY^S SECRET. 

“ 'N'ever mind him, Nelly dear I” said Mrs. Reilly, as 
she gathered her shawl around her ; “I know him too 
well to be offended at anything he says. • Idl be up to 
him one of these days, or I’ll lose a fall. Is any of you 
going to vespers 

Yes, they were all going except Mrs. Flanagan, so 
Mrs. Reilly thought she would wait, as she knew Tom 
was gone around the other way. When Tim made his 
appearance, “ ready for the road,” as he said himself, he 
had on the same waggish smile, and Mrs. Reilly shook 
her fist at him with a menacing air, but they walked off 
together as good friends as could be, John and Ellie 
bringing up the rear. 

In the evening when Mrs. Reilly and Tom were seated 
at their comfortable tea-table, the mother suddenly laid 
down the cup she was raising to her lips, and addressed 
her son who sat opposite. Her words went straight 
from her inmost heart, for Mrs. Reilly was as guileless 
as a child, and never practised equivocation. 

“Now, Tom, I want to ask you one question, and I 
know you’ll tell me the truth.” 

“ I wouldn’t wish to tell you anything else", mother. 
But what is it ?” 

“ Did you and Alice Byrne ever keep company, or did 
you not ? That’s a plain question.” 

“ It is, mother, a'fid it shall have a plain answer,” said 
Tom, though he was evidently unprepared for such a 
question. “We didn’t exactly keep company— that 
is ” — he hesitated. 

“ That is,” said his mother, taking him up, “you didn’t 
exactly go a courting to Alice, but there was a sdrt of a 
liking between yon, — -eh, Tom ?” 

Thus driven into a corner, Tom turned sharp round 
15 * 


346 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


and pnt the best face he could on the matter. “ As 
for Alice, mother, I can’t say the poor fellow’s 
voice quivered, for he could say, if he liked, “ but as 
for myself, I can’t deny that I once had a liking for 
her.” 

“ And I suppose you have still,” said the mother, with 
more petulance than she had ever before shown ; “ I see 
it as plain as can be. I suppose if Alice had consented, 
I’d have had a daughter-in-law in on me before now. 
That’s my thanks for staying as I am, and all on your 
account, Tom, when I might have had a comfortable 
home of my own. It’s just the way you ought to serve 
me.” 

Tom appeared greatly distressed. He pushed away 
his cup and saucer from before him, drew his chair back 
from the table, and appeared altogether like one who 
was making a desperate effort. “ Mother,” said he, 
“you do me wrong — indeed, you do! I never thought of 
giving you a daughter-in-law — upon my word, I did 
not.” 

“ Well, and how was it that people got a talking about 
it ?” • 

“ I’ll just tell you the plain truth, mother, as you have 
heard something of it, though I’d just as soon you had 
not. There was a time when I took a great notion of 
Alice Byrne, and I said to myself that I was sure you’d 
be well pleased to have her for a daughter-in-law, but 
when I came to turn the matter over in my mind, I 
thought you’d just as soon I didn't marry any one, and 
that as we were so quiet and so happy now, it wouldn’t 
be wise for me to run the risk of disturbing that peace. 
Let Alice be ever so good, and let me like her ever so 
well, I thought you had the first claim on me, so I made 



TOM Reilly’s secret. 


347 


up my mind that I’d try and get over my foolish notions, 
and, with God’s help, I have succeeded. I prayed for it 
early and late, mother, indeed I did.” 

“ Are you quite sure you’ve got over those notions ?” 
said his mother, endeavoring to conceal her emotion. 

“ Quite — quite sure, mother,” and Tom raised his eyes 
to his mother’s face, as if inviting her to examine for 
herself. “ Haven’t I been doing all I could for Mike 
Sheridan, and, thank God, Alice herself is now well 
content to have him.’’ 

‘‘ So she wasn’t always content ?” 

“ I didn’t say so, mother,” said Tom, blushing faintly. 
“ It took some time for her to know Mike, but now she 
knows him, and is quite willing to marry him if the old 
people on both sides can be brought round.” 

Mrs. Reilly said nothing. Her heart was full to 
overflowing, but she could not speak a word. She took 
out her handkerchief, and slowly wiped away a tear 
from her cheek, then cleared her throat and prepared to 
resume her ministry at the table. “Won’t you have 
another cup of tea, Tom ?” said she, after a little 
while. 

“ I believe I will, mother,” said Tom, anxious to prove 
that he had no lingering regret for the sacrifice he had 
made. So he drew back his chair to the table, and 
received with a smile the “ cup of warm tea” from his 
mother’s hand. It was now Mrs. Reilly’s turn to be 
silent and thoughtful. Tom spoke of many things, but he 
could only get half-conscious answers. At last, the meal 
was ended, and the tea-things being removed, Tom took 
up the History of the Bible which he had been reading 
aloud. 

“Just wait a minute, Tom, dear,” said his mother, as 


348 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


she took a seat near him. “ I have just been thinking, 
my sou, that it was very selfish of me to try to keep you 
from marrying,’^ 

Why, no, mother, it wasn’t selfish, it was only very 
natural. I have been, and I’m sure am still, all the 
world to you, and it was only natural that you should 
wish to have no rival in my affection. Think no ipore 
about it, mother.” 

“ I’ll tell you what, Tom,” persisted the mother, “ sup- 
pose I was to tell Mike all — don’t you think he’d be wil- 
ling to back out, when he’d find out that you and Alice 
had a notion of each other.” 

“ For God’s sake, mother, don’t think of any such 
thing,” cried Tom, with unusual warmth. “ I give you 
my solemn word that Alice and myself never exchanged 
words on the subject, and since I can’t have her myself, 
I’m well pleased for Mike to have her.” 

“ Still and all, Tom” 

“ I beg your pardon, .my dear mother, for interrupting 
you, but the short and the long of it is, neither Alice 
Byrne nor any one else shall ever divide my heart with 
you, while God spares you to me. I’m quite as happy 
now as I ever wish to be in this world. So you see 
there’s no use talking any more about it. May I go on 
now ?” he added, with a smile. 

“Well, I suppose so,” said his mother, putting the 
lamp nearer to him on the table ; “ I see I must give in. 
‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ as my Uncle 
Brian used to say ; the Lord have mercy on him. He 
died young, Thomas dear, long before I was married, 
and a better son or a better brother never broke bread. 
You put me in mind of him, Tom, very often, especially 
when you look pleased and happy as you do now.” 


MIKE Sheridan’s marriage. 349 

Tom might have returned the compliment, for he 
thought he had never seen his mother look so happy. 
The light from one face was reflected on the other. Tom 
said nothing, however, but quietly resumed his reading, 
w’ondering how he had got over his embarrassment so 
easily. Many a time, in after years, did Tom refer to 
that moment as the happiest of his life. And well he 
might, for the recording angel marked it in lustrous 
characters in the book of life. Tom had offered up on 
the altar of filial love the dearest affections of his heart ; 
and, what was more, the prospect of success ; for, 
although he said nothing of it to his mother, it was well 
known amongst their young friends that Alice had a 
high - opinion of Tom Reilly, and could have been easily 
won had he chosen to woo. But Tom made the required 
sacrifice, and it made his good mother happy, and drew 
down the blessing of God, for God loves, and promises 
to reward self-denial. 

That same evening, Tim Flanagan and his wife walked 
over, after tea, to Dan Sheridan’s. Mike and Annie 
were speedily ordered out by Tim, who told Mike to get 
up and take Annie out for a walk. It was fine moon- 
light. “ But, mind you don’t be long,” said their 
mother. 

“Oh ! never fear, mother ! we’ll be back in half an 
hour or so,” cried Annie, well pleased to get a glimpse 
at the bright moonlight sky. Mike nodded to Tim as he 
passed, as much as to say : “ I leave my cause in your 
hands.” And Tim nodded in reply : “ I understand you 
• — go in peace !” 

When the young people were gone, Tim went skillfully 
to work, beginning at a safe distance from his real object, 
and gradually bringing it into view. Dan was at first 


350 


BLARES AND FLANAGANS. 


very surly on it, and said if Tim had nothing better to do 
than praise up the Byrnes he miglit stay at home. He 
didn’t owe them any ill-will, but one of them should never 
come into his family as long as he could prevent it. But 
Tim was ably seconded by Nelly, and, finally, Mrs. Sheri- 
dan herself took their side of the question, admitting 
that, after all, the Byrnes were decent, respectable peo- 
ple, and good Catholics, and, for her part, she didn’t see 
that Mike could do better. 

And, more than that,” said Tim, “ it shows that 
Neddy Byrne is more forgiving than you, Dan, for he 
says he has no objection to the match, if you can be 
brought round. Indeed I have good reason to know 
that he feels bad enough about the same coolness. And 
as for his daughter, why there isn’t a modester or a bet- 
ter girl anywhere within my knowing. I tell you what, 
Dan, even to say nothing of religion, which, you know, 
forbids us to keep spite ’’ 

“ Why, then, Tim, don’t I know that well enough ? 
And sure I hav'n't any spite against Neddy Byrne, or 
any one else, for God knows I’d be sorry to hear of any 
harm happening to him or his, but I don’t want to have 
Mike marry his daughter.” 

“Well! talk’s cheap,” said Tim, gravely, “but^so long 
as you don’t give your consent to that, I tell you pat and 
plain, there’s no use in your saying you owe the Byrnes 
no ill-will. Now, I see plainly that it’s only some foolish 
notion that’s in your head, and with God’s help we’ll get 
it out of it before long. Here I am now, and here’s 
Nelly, and there’s Jenny, your own lawful wife, all in 
favor of this match, so we’ll not let you budge out of 
that corner, till you give your consent. Indeed, it’s well 
pleased you ought to be to see Mike making such a pru- 


MIKE SHERIDAN^S MARRIAGE. 351 

dent choice. Even Father Power thinks a deal of Alice. 
I know that myself.” 

This last blow was a clincher. ‘‘Weill well I” said 
Dan, “ 1 suppose I can’t hold out any longer. One 
against so many would never do. But, upon my credit, 
Tim, only it’s you and Nelly that’s in it, I wouldn’t give 
in, for I have no liking for the Byrnes. Still and all, as 
you say Father Power thinks well of the girl, and that 
Mike has taken a liking to her, I’ll not be the means of 
keeping it back. You may tell Mike so when he comes 
in, and be sure you go to-morrow and tell Neddy Byrne 
that I didn’t come round without good pressing. 1 don’t 
want him to think me so very soft as to forget old times 
all of a sudden. Now, mind, and do what I tell you.” 
Tim cheerfully assented. 

Mike had hardly entered the room, when Tim called 
out : “ Mike, what is this I hear ? Your father and 
mother, it seems, want you to marry Alice Byrne, and 
you won’t consent. Isn’t she wife good enough for your 
betters ? — eh, Mike ! answer me that now !” 

Mike was taken quite aback, and knew not well how 
to take this sally ; but, venturing, at last, to look 
towards his father, he was speedily re-assured, for honest 
Dan was laughing in a quiet way peculiar to himself. 
His mother, too, was smiling, and held out her hand, 
which Mike was not slow to take. From her he went to 
his father, who thrust his hands in his breeches-pockets, 
though he still continued laughing. 

“No, no, Mike, no shaking hands with me. Tim 
Flanagan says you’re holding out against your mother 
and me, and if she’s so ready to overlook your undutiful 
conduct, I’m not. Keep your distance, my good fellow. 


352 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


anless you cau prove I’m ia the wrong, and, upon my 
credit, if you can. I’ll let you marry who you like.” 

“ Now for it, Mike I” said Tim, laughing. “ Do you, 
or do you not, consent to marry Alice Byrne, and thereby 
show yourself a dutiful son, as you have always been 
till now ? Speak now, Mike, or hereafter hold your 
tongue.” 

“ I consent I” said Mike, sitting down by his father, 
“ and, I suppose, I may as well tell you, for you all sus- 
pect it already, that I never obeyed a command with 
greater pleasure. Many thanks to you, my dear father 
and mother, and to you, my good, kind friends. I hope 
in God you’ll never have cause to regret what you have 
done for me this night.” 

Next morning early, Dan Sheridan sent Annie to tell 
Tim Flanagan not to go to Neddy Byrne’s till he was 
with him. Accordingly, about four o’clock, he made his 
appearance, and the two sallied forth together. 

“ I suppose you’re wondering at my going with you, 
Tim ?” observed Dan, as they jogged along side by side. 
“To tell you the truth, I was up seeing Father Power 
this morning, and he got a talking to me about charity, 
and forgiving our enemies, and all such things, until I 
felt as if I wanted to go right off and shake Neddy Byrne 
by the hand, and tell him we must be good, friends for 
the time to come. You know what a way Father Power 
has with him ; he could a’most charm the birds off the 
bushes.” 

“ I know it very well,” said Tim, laughing, “ and when 
I got your message this morning I guessed he had been 
talking to you. I was well pleased with you last night, 
Dan Sheridan ; but, I tell you candidly, I never thought 


MIKE Sheridan’s marriage. 353 

BO much of you as I do this minute. If Neddy Byrue is 
the man I take him for, he’ll be of the same opinion.” 

And such was really the case. Byrne was as much 
surprised as pleased by the truly Christian conduct of 
Dan Sheridan, and the tears were in his eyes as he took 
his offered hand, and warmly shook it. 

“ I hardly expected this, Dan,” said he, for, to tell 
the truth. I’m afraid I was more in fault than you were.” 

1 “ Never mind, Neddy, never mind,” said Dan ; “which- 

' 3ver of us was in fault, we’re both sober men, now, and 
we’ve kept it up far too long. As for me, I can’t take 
the same merit to myself that you can, for it was Tim' 
Flanagan here and Father Power that brought me round. 
God bless them both ! Let us be good friends for the 
' time to come. Where’s Mrs. Byrne ? she used to be 
^ glad to see me. And this pretty girl of yours that has 
^ turned Mike’s head ?” 

5 Both made their appearance on Neddy’s invitation ; 

•' Alice blushing like a new-blown rose, and her mother 
smiling most graciously. On the following evening the 
y Flanagans, the Sherid^s, and the Reillys, were all enter- 
^ tained at Neddy and then and there the match 

was made up, ^ fli^lfident satisfaction of all concerned. 
Even Tom B^i|J.ihade such a show of cheerfulness that 
■ no one could:cVer> suspect him of any lingering regret for 
what he was about to lose for ever. His pale cheek 
might have been a shade paler than usual as he asked , 
Alice to dance, and his mother, the only close observer 
of his actions, felt sorry that she had permitted him to 
expose himself to such a trial ; but, after a while, she 
« saw, to her grea.t relief, that Tom was laughing and chat- 
m ting with his partner as gaily as though nothing lay 
|B beneath the sparkling surface. Edward Flanagan and 

I 



354 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Margaret were there, and Mr. O’Callagan was there, 
and, altogether, it was a happy meeting. 

A week from that day, Mike Sheridan and pretty 
Alice Byrne were married by the Rev. Peter Sheridan, 
before the altar in St. Peter’s Church, and a happier pair 
never received priestly blessing. A numerous party of 
their friends assisted at the holy sacrifice offered up for 
the young couple by the brother of the bridegroom, and 
many a prayer went up to heaven for a blessing on the 
union thus auspiciously formed. The wedding was held 
at Dan Sheridan’s by a special stipulation. 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


355 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE — MATTERS OF GENERAL IMPORT. 

Passing over an interval of ten years, we will once 
mwre raise the curtain, and give our readers a parting 
look at the different personages who have been “ playing 
their parts ” before them. First in our affections are the 
Flanagan family, and we have written for nothing if our 
readers, too, are not specially interested in their welfare. 
Let us, therefore, begin with them. I wish it were in 
our power to introduce Tim Flanagan at the head of his 
family, as we have done on former occasions. But, run- 
ning our eye along th'e line of our characters, we miss his 
“ old familiar face his athletic form, and fresh, mirthful 
countenance are nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Flanagan’s 
mild features are shaded by a widow’s cap. 

“Death has been here since last we met, 

This jocund hearth beside,” 


and his shadowy dart has struck down the life and soul 
of the family. There is a subdued expression on every 
face, underlying the Christian resignation of those “ who 
mourn not as without hope.” 


356 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Yes ! Tim Flanagan was gone ; he died at the age of 
fifty, of inflammation of the lungs, and a handsome monu- 
ment records at once the exemplary life of the dead, and 
the filial affection of his children, by whom it was erected. 
Mrs. Flanagan would gladly have done it herself, for she 
had ample means left her, but her sons would not hear of 
such a thing. It was their pride and their privilege, they 
said, to pay that tribute of gratitude and respect to the 
father who had done so much for them. The last rest- 
ing-place of Tim Flanagan is side by side with that of his 
daughter Susan. 

The old firm of “ Flanagan & Son^’ was now changed 
to “Flanagan Brothers,” for Edward had taken John 
into partnership immediately after his father’s death, and 
the connection continued from year to year the same. 
The business of the house had become very extensive ; 
and, though both the brothers were still under forty, they 
had already amassed a handsome fortune. There was a 
blessing on all that they possessed, and everything they 
undertook seemed to prosper. 

John Flanagan had, in due time, followed his brother’s 
example, and chosen a. helpmate for bimself amongst the 
daughters of his own race. His choice had fallen on 
Teresa Daly, a niece of Mr. O’Callaghan, and sister of 
that Lawrence Daly whom we heard of many years ago 
as a favored suitor of Annie Sheridan. Teresa Daly was 
a daughter-in-law after Mrs. Flanagan’s own heart, and 
was just such another blooming young matron when our 
story re-opens as her mother-in-law was when she first 
appeared before us. True, education made some difference, 
for Teresa had been brought up by the Ursuline nuns in 
Cork, and her manners had a polish which would have 
graced any society. Margaret and she were like sisters, 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


SS’I 


and Mrs. Flanagan used to say she didn’t believe there 
were two such wives in New York. For herself she 
lived with her daughter, who had married a Mr. Fitz- 
gerald, a young Irishman of good family, and still better 
principles, who had emigrated to New York some years 
before. He was an intelligent young man, of steady, 
industrious habits, and was employed as chief salesman 
in an eminent wholesale house in William street. Ellie 
had as yet no family, and in her home her mother was 
spending the evening of her days calmly and happily. 
Once in a while she would pass a week or two at Edward’s, 
or at John’s, and such visits were marked as white spots 
in the daily life of the family so visited. But the noisy 
gambols of her grandchildren, though very pleasant, for 
the first few days, soon began to jar on the pleasing 
melancholy which had become habitual to her mind, as 
she was always well pleased to return to her quiet 
chamber with^ijts little altar-shelf, and her large, high- 
backed chair iS^lie’s snug parlor. There she could sit 
and read, and kuit stockings for the whole family, especi- 
ally the yo'U^lr members, whose feet and legs she took 
under her special charge. Every time the children of 
either family came to visit grandmamma, she had a new 
pair of stockings for Timothy or Ellen, or John or Thomas, 
for these were the principal names in both families. On 
festival days the whole family assembled at some one of 
the houses, and on the first day of the new year, all the 
children came in the morning early to ask their grand- 
mother’s blessing. Mrs. Flanagan’s life was wearing 
away calmly and peacefully, in the midst of her children 
and grandchildren, and if at times she did sigh for that 
world where her beloved husband awaited her coming 
she instantly checked herself, and said : “ Not my will, 0 


358 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Lord I but thine be done ! I know my dear children are 
happier for having me with them, and I am content to 
remain below for their sakes, and to do thy holy will.^^ 

Thomas Flanagan was pastor of one of tlie city churches, 
where he had for years edified and instructed the {“aithful, 
by example as well as by precept. Peter Sheridan was 
not stationed quite so near his family. Out amongst the 
beautiful mountains that fringe the North River, he had 
a small parish under his care — a little colony of faithful 
Irish, who looked up to their meek and humble pastor as 
the holiest and most learned of priests. There his life 
flowed on like a summer stream, brightened into sunshine 
at times by visits from his city friends, the loving and 
beloved. Dr. Power himself went once or twice to see 
Mr. Sheridan, and on one of these occasions he spent a 
whole week with him in his calm retreat. Those visits 
were memorable events in the good priest’s life, and he 
used to speak ever after of certain events as having occur- 
red “ about the first or the last time Dr. Power was 
there.” Priest and all as he was, Peter esteemed it a 
high honor lo be visited by his former pastor, and the 
director of his boyish days. 

Miles Blake and his wife were still living, but it would 
be no easy matter to recognize Mary in the tall, thin, 
care-worn old woman, who seemed already bending beneath 
the weight of years ; and as for Miles, though he stood 
it somewhat better, he had as many wrinkles on his brow 
as though the silvery hue of his hair were the effect of 
age, which unhappily it was not. Well might Henry T. 
Blake and Mrs. Zachary Thomson have exclaimed, with 
the penitent Caur de Lion, as he stood in the presence 
of his dead father : 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


359 


“ Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright, 

And, father, father, but for me they had not been so white.” 


But neither brother nor sister took it much to heart 
Their old Irish father and mother were persons of no 
great consequence in their estimation, and any one of the 
young Blakes or Thomsons, precocious little ladies and 
gentlemen, was worth more in their eyes than fatlier and 
mother put together. Indeed, Mrs. Blake had received 
more than one gentle hint (before she choose to take 
them), that her visits were not over and above agreeable 
at either house. Eliza put it off with : “ I wish, ma ! you 
wouldn’t come into the parlor when there are any 
strangers in it. Can’t you go to the nursery and stay 
there till I come to you ? You know I’m always glad 
to see you myself, but really my visitors don’t seem to 
understand your way of talking. If you would only try 
to get over those vulgar Irish expressions, you might do 
very well, but you don’t seem to try.” 

“No, indeed, Eliza, nor I never will, please God. I 
know it’s too bad altogether for me to intrude on you and 
your fine company, but I’m getting old now, Eliza, and I 
hope wiser too. If I had done like your father long ago, 
and given up troubling you at all, I’d have saved you this 
trouble, but it’s never too late to mend. If there’s any- 
thing wrong, yqu can send for me, but till then you’ll not 
see me here agaipi.” 

“ Why, now, ma, you’re not offended, are you ?” said 
Eliza, with real or pretended anxiety. “You hww I 
didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but just only fancy 
how awkward I felt when you came into the parlor the 
other day so unceremoniously, when the honorable Jonas 


3G0 


B n A- K E S AND- F L A N A G A N S'. 


Seaton and bis wife were there. I should think yourself 
must have felt as bad as I did.’’ 

“ It’s of no consequence, Eliza, whether I did or not. 
If you choose to be ashamed of your mother, it’s best for 
me to keep away altogether; and then I’ll’ be sure not to 
disgrace you. Here are some little toys I brought for 
Samuel and Rebecca, and there’s an ivory rattler for the 
baby.” 

“Bht won’t you go up stairs and'see them, ma ?” 

“ J?o,” said Mrs. Blake, in a husky voice, “ I can’t wait 
now.. Kiss the children for me, Eliza, and give my com- 
pliments to Mr. Thomson.” 

“ Well,, I’ll send the children to see you some day' 
soon.” 

“ Oh ! don’t trouble yourself, Eliza, don’t trouble* 
yourself, there’s no necessity for paying so much respect' 
to sold people like us. Your father and I are so rough,. 
and.sG old-fashioned in our ways, that the children can* 
learn nothing good from us.” 

Eliza followed her. mother to the door, begging her not^ 
to go, and expressing.- her* sorrow for the misunderstand^- 
ing that had arisen. 

“Nonsense, girl, nonsense,” said the old woman, losing- 
patience altogether ; “go and mind your business, if 
you have any, and let' me go in peace. You first give* 
the wound and then try to lay on a plaster, but it won’ti 
do. Go in, I tell you, and let me alone.” 

“Oh! if that> be the way of it,” said Mrs. Thomson, 
walking with a dignified air into the parlor they haddeft; 
“if‘that be the way, mother,* of course I* have* nothing 
more to say. Good morning.” 

Mrs. Blake- called at- Mrs; Fitzgerald’s on*, her way 
home, . and . she had hardly taken, her* seat, beside Mrs. 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


361 


Flanagan when a burst of tears prepared her kind 
auditors for some new tale of sorrow. 

“ Don’t cry, Mary dear,” said her sister-in-law, sooth- 
ingly ; “ don’t cry I crying does no good, though it 
sometimes eases one’s heart. What’s the matter now ?” 

“ Oh I the old story, Nelly, neither more nor less. 
Those children of mine will be the death of me — they 
will indeed. It’s no wonder I’d cry, Nelly, and cry tears 
of blood, if that was possible. Eliza’s just after telling 
me not to go into her parlor when she had company with 
her. You may be sure I didn’t stay long in her house 
after it, and it’ll be many a long day before I set foot in 
it again. Lord look to me this day, but I’m a poor, 
heart-broken mother.” She wept for a little while in 
silence, neither Mrs. Flanagan nor. her daughter knowing 
well what to say at the moment. Suddenly Mrs. Blake 
raised her head : “ But who would ever think of Eliza’s 

turning out so ? eh, Nelly — did you ever hear of a 

girl so deceitful as she was 

“Well! I don’t know,” said Mrs. Flanagan, taking off 
her spectacles to wipe them.; “of late years I haven’t 
seen much of Eliza, , and, to tell you the truth, when she 
was a girl growing: up, I thought her a good, obedient 
daughter.” 

“ Time has much to answer for. Aunt Mary 1” said 
Eilie, speaking. for the first time ; “it has wrought great 
changes in our family, and especially as regards Henry 
and Eliza.” 

“ Oh, time,, indeed I” said Mrs. Blake, with a toss of her 
head ; “ time has little to do with the change that’s in 
them. If their father had taken your poor father’s 
advice: — may the Lord receive his soul this day ! and 
bspought his children up as he ought to do, it isn’t what 
16 


862 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS 


they are theyM be to-day. Now, there’s Henry, and I 
believe he hasn’t crossed a church door this month. 
That wife of his is a black pill, Nelly dear I that’s 
what she is. She hates Catholics as she hates soot. 
And so she’s all the time harping, harping at the chil- 
dren about Romanism, as she calls the true religion, so 
they’ll just grow up as bitter against us as she is 
herself.” , 

“ And does Henry know how she goes on when his 
back is turned ?” 

“ I can’t say whether he does or not ; he can’t but 
know somt of it. But the truth is, he doesn’t care. 
Still, you’ll hear him say, now and then, that he means 
to bring his children up Catholics. It’s the queer 
Catholics they'll be,” she added, bitterly. “ I’m afraid 
they’ll be worse than their father, and worse is needless 
— God knows that, and I know it, and a sorrowful heart 
it leaves me this blessed day. But I was forgetting to 
ask you, won’t you all come over to-morrow evening ? 
Miles told me to ask you, and you know we’re so lone- 
some that it’s a real charity to come. I’m afraid Miles 
is breaking down fast. He’s far from being the man he 
used to be. And, sure that’s no wonder — it’s a greater 
wonder that he stands it as he does. Poor man ! he’s 
as cross, at times, as a bear, and I find it hard enough 
to humor him. Conscience is stinging him now when 
it’s too late. But won’t you come ?” 

“ Not to-morrow evening, Mary,” said Mrs. Flanagan, 
who seemed struggling with some strong emotion. She 
looked at Ellie, and Ellie understood her wishes. 

“ You must not expect us to-morrow evening, my 
dear aunt,” said she ; “ I’m sure you wouldn’t ask us, 
if ^ou had remembered what day it will be.” 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


363 


" Why, what day is it ? let me see — the nineteenth of 
March — St. Josephus day ” — 

“ And the anniversary of my dear father’s death,” 
added Ellie, with g, faltering voice. 

“ Oh! then sure enough it is,” said her aunt ; “ how 
could I forget it ? well! I’ll not disturb you any more 
with my clattering talk, for I know you’ll be better 
pleased left to yourselves. May the Lord have mercy 
on your soul, Tim Flanagan! it’s you was the loving 
brother to me all your life!” The three wept some time 
in silence, and then it was settled that Mrs. Blake should 
go to church in the morning with the Flanagan family, 
as there was to be a solemn anniversary mass said by 
Father Flanagan. 

Mrs. Blake began to think, on her way home, that 
perhaps Henry would go to mass the next morning, if 
he only knew what it was for. “ As it’s a family affair, 
perhaps decency might make him attend. At any 
rate, it’s my business to let him know.” So she went 
something out of her way in order to leave word for 
Henry with one of the maid-servants who was a 
Catholic. 

“ Be sure you tell him now, Kitty, for except you do 
he’ll not hear anything of it.” 

“ Oh! never fear, ma’am, but I’ll tell him,” said Kitty, 
but I can’t promise you that he’ll go. It depends 
entirely on the mistress, and I know very well that if she 
had her way altogether, he’d never set foot inside a 
Catholic church.” 

“ How is your mistress this morning, and the chil- 
dren ?” 

“ All well, ma’am. Won’t you come in and see 
them ?” 


;564 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


“ Not now, Kitty ; I have no time for visiting. Just 
ivatch your opportunity, like a good girl, and give your 
master my message.” 

After dinner, Mrs. Henry Blake went out of the 
dining-room for something she wanted up stairs, leaving 
Henry in what is vulgarly called a brown study, but like 
the venerable Mother Hubbard, with her wonderful dog 
toby, 

“ When she came back, she found him laughing.” 

“ What are you laughing at, Henry ?” inquired Jane. 
“ Some bright conceit for your next address to the 
gentlemen of the jury.” 

“ Not exactly, Jane,” said Henry, still laughing ; “ I 
am laughing at that Irish girl you have in the kitchen — 
Kitty I believe you call her ?” Jane answered in the 
affirmative. “Well, what do you think but she stole in 
on tip- toe, just as you left the room, and told me as a great 
secret — you wouldn’t guess what, Jane ?” 

“ You know I am a bad guesser, Henry ; do go on. 
What did the girl tell you ?” 

“ Why neither more nor less than this, that Father 
Flanagan is to say mass to-morrow for his father, Tim, 
my good uncle of pious memory.” 

“ Well, and then” 

“ And then, my mother called this morning at the door 
and told Kitty to tell me to be in Church to-morrow 
morning, bright and early, to hear Father Flanagan say- 
ing mass for his father. Ha 1 ha I ha I ain’t that rich ? 
If I haven’t got the greatest set of humbugs belonging 
tc me I” 

Jane laughed in her turn. “ Why, my dear, how could 
you expect it otherwise? — you have got to pay the 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


365 


penalty of that Irish Uood'^ which you sometimes turn 
to such good account.” 

“ Spoken like an oracle, Jane ; I have made well of my 
Irish Uood. It has brought me safe through many a 
hard-fought field, thanks to the “gullibility” of our 
worthy Irish citizens. They are always ready to swallow 
the bait if it be only covered with liberality or nationality, 
or what shall I call it — religionality.” 

“ But about this mass,” said Jane, “ do you mean to 
go ?” 

“ Not I, indeed I I have no idea of going to church 
of a week morning, and spending an hour or two there 
which I might turn to better account. I have never yet 
acted the hypocrite, and I am too old to begin now. 
Besides, these masses for the dead are all a sham, and 
I don’t think it manly or honest to countenance such 
things.” 

“ For shame, Henry,” said Jane, with ^er sweetest 
smile; “how can you talk so? have you no compassion 
on your uncle’s soul ? you know the poor dear man is 
perhaps suffering in purgatory, waiting for the mass. 
How would you like to be there yourself ? — eh, Henry ?” 

“ Nonsense, Jane, I have no faith in purgatory, and I 
never want to hear anything about it, for such foolish 
doctrines are just what bring odium and disgrace on reli- 
gion. If it were not for purgatory and penance, and 
praying to saints, and such like, Catholics would not be 
sneered at as they are by all rational people. Are we for 
the Park this evening ?” 

“ Oh ! of course — what’s on the bill ?” 

“ Bulwer’s Lady of Lyons. The house will be crowded 
you may be sure, so I must go at once and secure 'tickets. 
I’ll step into Zach’s office as I pass to see if they’re going.” 


366 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Eliza has a bad cold, I know,” said Jane ; “ but,^^ 
she added, with a smile, “ that will hardly prevent her 
from going. It would be a very bad cold indeed that 
would keep her at home when Forrest is to play Claude 
Melnotte. But, I say, Henry, what about Ebenezer. 
Are we to take him ?” 

“ Oh I I think so,” said the father ; “ dear little fellow, 
he was so delighted the other evening when we took him 
to see King Lear. He just begins to take proper notice 
of what he sees, and there is such a freshness in the 
enjoyment of a young child that it quite does one good 
to see it. Oh, of course Ebby must go. In another 
year or so, Samuel will be old enough to go, too, some- 
times.” 

Evening came, and Henry and Jane setoff with Ebene- 
zer for the theatre, calling on the way to take up Zachary 
and Eliza. The cold was no better, Eliza said, but worse, 
if anything. Why did she venture out, then, Jane asked. 
Oh I she was sure it would do her no harm, and she 
always felt better in the theatre. She was so nervous 
that she did hate to sit moping at home when Zachary 
was out. She had with her a pretty girl of nine or ten, 
the eldest of her four children. Arabella-Selina was 
be-frilled and be-curled at such a rate that one might sup- 
pose that she was to figure on the stage herself. She 
was a little prodigy in her way, and was quite conscious of 
the fact, as her very look denoted. Young as she was, 
her large, bright eyes were ever roaming around, canvass- 
ing for admiration, and no matter how grave or important 
the subject under discussion, Arabella-Selina was never at 
a loss for something to say. It was her mother^s boast 
that she was “ quite the lady,” and so, indeed, she was, 
for there was a natural grace about her that made her 


EFFECT FOLLOWS CAUSE. 


367 


very charming, notwithstanding the load of frippery airs 
and graces put on by art. On their way to the Park 
Theatre, Arabella held a critical conversation with her 
little cousin on several plays which they had seen per- 
formed. Her tone was quite patronizing, as she initiated 
her attentive listener into some of the secrets of criticism. 
“ There was a horrid old nun,” said she, speaking of one 
play, “and you know, Ebenezer, nuns are always such mys- 
terious, strange sort of people. But this old nun — she 
was called an Abbess — oh, dear I she was so wicked, just 
like the nun your ma was reading about the other 
evening ; but only think, Ebby, the part wasn’t well 
done !” 

“ What did you say ?” asked Ebenezer, opening his 
eyes wide. 

“ Why, you know it wasn’t a real nun that was there 
on the stage, but Mrs. Ackland that took that character. 
I shall never like Mrs. Ackland again, for, oh dear ! she 
played so abominably bad that she quite spoiled the 
part. Grandpa and grandma thought so, too, I assure 
you. 

“ Don’t they ever have giants there?” demanded Ebe- 
nezer, his head full of the marvellous story of Jack the 
Giant Killer. 

“ La, no ! you silly boy 1” said the precocious young 
lady ; “ what put that in ycur head ?” 

“ Why I thought when they had nuns and all such 
queer people, they might likely have giants, too. I don’t 
want to see nuns. Pd rather see soldiers or giants. I 
don’t like nuns.” 

“ Fie, Ebby,” said his mother ; “ why will you talk so, 
child ?” 

“Why, ma I I often heard yourself say the same, and 


368 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS 


it was only yesterday grandpa told me that nuns and 
priests were such very wicked people that he couldn’t 
hardly tell me how wicked they were.” 

“ Ebenezer^” said his father, “ you must never let me 
hear you speak so again. Remember that ! if you do I 
shall be very angry with you.” 

“ But I suppose I may speak so to ma, and grandpa, 
and grandma,” said the astute urchin ; “ mayn’t I, pa ?” 

Henry turned away his head to hide a smile, and the 
others all laughed heartily. Zachary patted the boy on 
the head, and paid him a well-merited compliment for his 
smartness. 

When Kitty got the master and mistress out, she went 
up stairs to the nursery, and asked nurse to let her have 
Master Sam down stairs with her a while to keep her com- 
pany. Nurse consented, nothing loath, and away went 
Kitty with her prize to the kitchen. Kitty had plenty 
of sweetmeats at command, and Sam was always well 
treated when he went of an evening to the kitchen, for 
he was Kitty’s prime favorite. 

“ Now, Master Sam I ain’t I a good girl, — don’t you 
love me ?” The answer was slow in coming, for Sam’s 
mouth was full at the moment. At last he got out what 
he wanted to say. 

“Yes, you good girl, — you give me goodies all the 
time, but Sam not love you.” 

“ And why so. Master Sam ?” 

“Because you Irish, and you Papist — naughty, bad 
Papist — ma says so. Sam must not love naughty 
Papists.” 

“ But your father is a Papist !” 

“ No — no — my father no Papist — don’t speak so of my 
father I if you do. I’ll not stay with you !” Sam’s allow- 


MATTERS OF GENERAL IMPORT. 369 


ance was finished, so Kitty knew he would likely carry 
out his threat if provoked, and she really liked the child. 
She, therefore, applied herself to soothe his wounded feel- 
ings, and turned his attention to something else. This, 
however, was a fair specimen of how Henry Blake’s child- 
ren were disposed towards Catholicity. 

One day, about this time, there came a decent looking 
emigrant into Flanagan’s store, asking to see “ the mas- 
ter.” 

“ Oh 1 you mean the boss,” said the shopman, smiling ; 
we have two bosses here ; but, I suppose, either will 
do. I’ll tell Mr. Edward.” 

Edward made his appearance accordingly. “Well, 
my good man, what can I do for you ?” 

“ God save you, sir I” said the man, taking off his hat. 

“ I was directed here to get some information about a 
family of the Dillons. There was a sister of mine mar- 
ried to one John Dillon, and they came out here many 
years ago. The last we heard from them, they were 
doin’ very well, an’ they sent my mother, God rest her 
soul ! five pounds in that very letter, but we never heard ^ 
a word from them since.” 

“You are not long out, I think,” said Edward. 

“ Have you a family?’ 

“ Yes, sir, I have a wife and two children, all strong 
and healthy, thanks be to God. We’re only two days in 
New York ; and, indeed, myself’s tired of it already, for 
I can’t get any account of poor Betsy or her family, an’ 

I’m just fairly worn out. Is it true, sir, that .you know 
anything about my poor sister ?” 

“ It is, my poor man, quite true. I only wish it was 
in my power to tell you anything satisfactory. Your 
sister is dead.” 


16 * 


3t0 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


The man was at first stunned by this intelligence ; but 
after a little, he coughed slightly, and cleared his throat, 
and then spoke. 

“Well I that’s bad news to begin with. But God’s 
will be done I And what about her husband, sir ?” 

“ He died some three or four years before she did. 
They had a son, too, a fine young man, who died — or 
rather, was killed, soon after his father’s death. They 
had, also, two daughters, who are, I believe, still living.” 

This was a ray of hope. “ Ah I then, thank God for 
that same. — And where are they, if you please, sir ? I’d 
give anything to see them, and poor Nancy — that’s my 
wife, sir, — will be ever so glad to find them out.” 

“ I would not have you depend too much on said 
Edward. “ I am very sorry to have to disappoint you, 
but you may as well find out the truth now as at a later 
period. Those daughters of Mra Dillon are, I assure 
you, no credit to their family. One of them married a 
young man named Sullivan, who is, I am told, a lazy, 
idle, good-for-nothing fellow, to say the least of him, and 
the other you must excuse me from saying anything 
about. Sullivan’s wife you might, possibly, do something 
to reclaim, at some future time ; but, for the present, I 
think you had better leave her alone.” He then pro- 
ceeded to give a short sketch of the family history, end- 
ing as follows : — 

“ Poor Mrs. Dillon was a very worthy woman, and, I 
trust, both she and her husband fully expiated, by their 
patient sufferings, the grievous errors they had com- 
mitted in the bringing up of their children. Your sister 
ended her career with my mother, who had given her 
a shelter for the last years of her life. When you are 
settled in some employment, I will send a person to show 


MATTERS OF GENERAL IMPORT. 371 


you her last resting-place, and that of her 'husband. You 
will have no trouble in finding it out,” he added, with a 
smile, which the stranger could not then understand. 

“ Thank you, kindly, sir. May the Lord reward you 
and yours 1” 

Edward then inquired what situation his new acquaint- 
ance was competent to fill, and, finally, engaged him as 
a porter, to the great joy of Brian Maloney, who went 
home in high spirits to his wife, telling her he was sure 
he had got in with a real gentleman, and a good Christ- 
ian. 

Brian and his wife paid an early visit to the Catholic 
Cemetery, in Eleventh street, where, after some searching, 
they found a handsome head-board in the form of a cross, 
bearing the simple inscription : In your charity^ jpray for 
the souls of John and Elizabeth Dillon. 

“ Now” said Brian, after they had finished their long 
prayer, kneeling by the two graves ; “ now, didn’t I tell 
you, Nancy, that we had God’s blessing to get in with 
such a family? See what a fine handsome head-board 
they have put over poor John and Betsy. Glory be to 
God for all his mercies.” 


372 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


CHAPTER XXIT. 

CONCLUSION. 

Mr. O’Callaghan lived about two years after Tim Fla- 
nagan, and then calmly resigned his spirit into the hands 
of Him who gave it. His whole fortune, amounting to 
thirty thousand dollars, came into the hands of Edward 
Flanagan, with the exception of four thousand dollars 
divided between the nephew and niece of the deceased. 
So John Flanagan was two thousand dollars richer by 
the death of Mr. O’Callaghan ; but, neither John’s two 
thousand, nor Edward’s twenty-six thousand, was consi- 
dered any equivalent for the loss of the kindly old man 
who had been looked up to as the head of the family ever 
since Tim’s decease. 

Lawrence Daly had commenced business for himself 
a couple of years before, and his uncle’s legacy “ gave 
him a good lift.” He and Annie were both careful and 
industrious, and heaven blessed their efforts with success. 
They still kept on the same small business, and hoarded 
up their little capital, so that, in the course of a few 
years, they were wholly independent, and able to givt 
their young family a good education. 


C ONCLUSION. 


313 

Daniel Sheridan and Jenny were still the same easy- 
going, good-hearted couple, able and willing to assist 
the needy, never making any show, yet respected and 
beloved by all who knew them. The last glimpse we had 
of them they were jogging merrily along, on the road of 
life, in a comfortable Darby and Joan sort of way, the 
one helping and supporting the other through the various 
sloughs and rough places which marked their journey to 
the tomb. Every year, when the hurry of the paschal 
time was over with their son Peter, they used to go and 
spend a couple of weeks with him, sometimes accompanied 
by Mike’s family or Annie’s, but more often by them- 
selves, leaving some of the others to take charge of the 
house while they were absent. 

Miles Blake and his wife had entered on a cheerless 
old age ; lonely and solitary they lived together, sur- 
rounded by cold and chilling splendor, which had no 
longer any charms for them. Miles had always been of 
a dogged and reserved turn, but of late years he had 
grown gloomy and morose ; religion had no consolation 
for his bruised and wounded heart, for he had never tried 
or tasted of its sweetuess. A Catholic but in name, he 
hardly ever approached the sacraments, unless it might 
be once a year, just to avoid the extreme penalty awarded 
by the church to those who neglected their paschal duty. 
Mary went oftener to confession, but, somehow, its healing 
balm gave little peace to her mind. She became fretful 
and irritable ; subject to fits of querulous impatience, 
during which she made every one around her miserable. 
The truth was, that conscience was lashing both husband 
and wife ; they could not but see in their present desola- 
tion, the effect of past imprudence ; and in their humili- 
ation, the consequence of rashness and presumption. The 


374 


BLAKES AND FLANAGAN. 


warnings of the good and wise, now numbered with the 
dead, rose up before them in characters of flame, and 
seemed, as it were, to sear their souls. Their children 
were ashamed of them — that fact was clear — they had 
no claim on the sympathy of their relatives or former 
friends, for they had turned their backs on them in the 
day of prosperity, when they calculated on friends of 
another class. Look where they might, all was gloom, 
and yet they could not raise their eyes to that better 
world where sin or sorrow has no place. At times one 
or the other would begin to yearn for the society of their 
children. Now it would be Miles, now Mary, who would 
endeavor to overcome the natural indignation of an out- 
raged parent, and say ; “Well, after all, I think I'll go 
and see Henry, or Eliza to-day,” which ever it might be, 
but the visit would be sure to tear open the old wounds 
and add still others. On one of these occasions. Miles 
returned home with a lowering brow and a feverish flush 
on his cheek. 

“ Well I” said his wife, meeting him at the door, “ how 
did you get on ? Was Henry at home ?” 

“No, he wasn’t at home,” returned Miles snappishly, 
“ and if I’m spared twenty years, I’ll never darken his 
door again — nor you either, Mary, with my consent. 
Let them go to the devil, where they are going head- 
long.” 

“ Why, what has happened to make you so angry ?” 

“It’s not worth speaking of,” said Miles, “for it’s 
only what I might have expected, but still and all, it’s 
hard enough for a father to be so treated in his son’s 
house; When I went in, I was showed into that little 
room opposite the best parlor, and the girl told me that 
I couldn’t see Mrs Henry for some time, as she was 


CONCLUSION. 


315 


engaged with company. Well, I waited and waited, and 
walked about the room, and sat down again, but no 
Jane appeared. So I rang the bell and asked the 
servant if I couldn't go in and see her mistress, as I 
wouldn’t detain her long, and only wanted to speak to 
her and leave a message for my son. I wish you’d see 
the terrified look of the girl, as she cried : ‘ Oh dear, no, 
sir, you couldn’t go in on any account. Missis would 
never forgive me — la, sirl they’re quite grand the people 
that are in there.’ Well, I was vexed enough you may 
be sure, but I asked if I couldn’t see the children, and 
so the girl went out to look for them, but they wouldn’t 
come, the unnatural young cubs ; and it’s what I heard 
one of them saying : ‘ If it’s my old Irish grandpa that’s 
chere, I don’t want to see him. I don’t care — you may 
cell him so, Sarah, if you like.’ With that, the girl 
came back to tell me that she guessed the children must 
have gone out, for she couldn’t find them nowhere. If I 
didn’t give her a look, she never got one, I tell you, and 
she got as red as a coal, but she said nothing, and 
neither did I. Out I walked, and it will be a month of 
Sundays before ever I cross that same threshold again. 
Those children are growing up in a bad way, mind I tell 
you, Mary I” 

“ I know it very well,” said Mrs. Blake, “ and that is 
just the way the world goes all over. Like father like 
son, and like mother like daughter. Eliza’s children 
aren’t one bit better, and how could they ? how could 
any of them be what they ought to be, when neither 
Zach nor Eliza has any religion worth speaking of, nor 
Henry either, and as for Jane, her religion isn’t worth 
having, though she has enough of it to make her as 
black as the ace of spades. I declare to my heart. 


I 


316 BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 

Miles, it makes my brain reel at times when I begin to 
think of all these things. When I see the Flanagans 
and the Sheridans, the Dalys and the Reillys, all getting 
on as well as heart could wish. Good obedient children 
they always were, and now they are good religious 
fathers and mothers. They’re all contented and happy, 
well liked by God and man, and then, just look at the 
Flanagans, I’m sure there’s not a more prosperous family 
in New York, or a more respectable one, though they’re 
all so religious ; and yet, you used to say that religion 
didn’t pay well in this country. Ah, Miles ! we didn’t 
think of all this in time, though it was often told us by 
them that’s now in dust.” 

“Ay I there it is,” said Miles; “it’s always the old 
story over again. Tim Flanagan’s advice haunts me 
when himself is in his grave. It will haunt me do what 
I will, but I’ll tell you what it is, Mary, don’t you be 
casting it up to me — don’t now, or you’ll not be thankful 
to yourself I Those hateful prophecies of his are ringing 
in my ears from morning till night, like a death-bell, 
and you must be coming over them to make matters 
worse.” 

This was the termination of many a debate between 
Miles Blake and his wife, and very often the dispute 
waxed so warm that Mrs. Flanagan was called in by the 
servant, who, being an old follower, was anxious to 
restore peace. As age advanced, these recriminations 
became more frequent and more violent, until Mrs, 
Flanagan was obliged to have recourse to Dr. Power, 
then rapidly nearing the fatal bourn. He was unable 
to leave his own house, but Mrs. Flanagan contrived to 
have Miles and Mary go there one morning under divers 
pretences, and the good priest exerted all the little 


CONCLUSION. 


3^ 


energy that remained to him to bring both parties to a 
more Christian frame of mind. He at length succeeded 
in convincing them that it was now more than ever their 
interest to live in perfect ^harmony, on account of their 
children’s estrangement, and that idle retrospections were 
both useless and ill-timed. From that day forward there 
was a vast improvement visible in both husband and 
wife ; happiness or contentment they did not expect in 
this world, but they were induced to think more of the 
salvation of their souls, and to bear the hardships of 
their lot as a means of expiating their sins. Their 
reconciliation acquired a solemn character in their eyes 
by the death of Dr. Power, which took place soon after. 
He had told them at the time that he spoke to them 
from the verge of eternity, and the event showed that he 
spoke prophetically. ' He lingered yet a little while, 
though wholly unable to perform the principal functions 
of his office, yet calmly resigned to the will of God, and 
awaiting without fear, the final summons. He died as he 
lived in close communion with his God, and a martyr to 
the iniquitous system of lay-trustees. Long, long will 
his memory live in the hearts of the Catholics of New 
York, as the man who stood by them in troublous times, 
and soothed the sorrows of their struggling state with 
his mild eloquence and his gentle ministration. Thank 
heaven he lived to see the Catholic children of New York 
amply provided with the means of education. Dr. Power 
was a mighty man in his generation — in the early day 
when his services were most required, — but a mightier 
than he descended into the arena where the School ques- 
tion was being agitated, and through his thrice blessed 
exertions, the Empire City can now boast of as good 
Catholic schools as any on the Western Continent. The 


3t8 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


Brothers of the Christian Schools and the J esuit Fathers 
labor conjointly in the Christian education of youth, doing 
for boys what the Ladies of the Sacred Heart and the 
Sisters of Charity do for girls of all conditions. New 
York has now its Jesuit colleges, its Christian schools, its 
Mount St. Vincent, and its Sacred Heart, watchwords, 
of hope and joy to generations yet unborn. 

And Henry T. Blake and his sister, Mrs. Thomson, 
saw all these Catholic institutions rising and flourishing 
around them, but no child of theirs ever entered such 
sacred walls. The dark spell was upon them — the cold 
indifference of their youth — their year-long neglect of the 
means of grace — their contempt for Catholic customs and 
Catholic devotions had grown into a hard callous crust, 
impervious to the genial rays of faith, hope, or charity. 
Religion was dead within them, and the world — the fash- 
ionable world, was the god of their worship. They sent 
their children to the same schools where their own faith 
had been shipwrecked, and the consequences were the 
same, only more decided. Henry T. Blake came from 
Columbia College a very bad Catholic, his sons went into 
it without religion of any kind, saving a sort of predilec- 
tion in favor of the Baptist sect — what they came out 
may well be guessed. Ebenezer and Samuel were trained 
up by their mother and her family in a wholesome horror 
of Catholicity, and a great contempt for everything Irish ; 
it is, therefore, quite probable that they are now to be 
found in the front ranks of the Know-Nothings, urging 
on the godless fanaticism of the age, in a crusade against 
the religion of their fathers and the children of their own 
race. As for their father, he gloried in his freedom from 
all prejudice, as he was pleased to call piety and religious 
influence. He was a staunch opponent of the Catholic 


CONCLUSION. 


379 


party in all their struggles for freedom of education, and 
by his eminent talents did good service to the opposition. 
Many a worthy son of Ireland was put to the blush by 
Henry T. Blake’s example, cited for their imitation by 
those who hated their race and their creed, and many a 
time was the fervent exclamation heard : “ I wish to God 
he hadn’t a drop of Irish blood in him, for he’s a disgrace 
to his name.” 

But still the world smiled on Henry T. Blake ; he 
attained to a prominent position at the American bar, 
and after some time got into the legislature. Outwardly, 
all went right with him, but inwardly, all went wrong. 
A fine intellect, a noble nature, were going rapidly to 
ruin for want of the pruning hand, and the salutary 
restraint of religion. The mocking demon of doubt and 
incredulity was gradually taking possession of that soul 
whence faith had been so early expelled. Henry T. Blake 
was fast becoming a scoffer — a declaimer against all reli- 
gion. 

Still it must not be supposed that Henry T. Blake ever 
formally left the Catholic Church On the contrary, he 
always called himself a Catholic, and would never lis- 
ten to any suggestions recommending a change. Many a 
time he was besieged with all the reasoning and vituper- 
ative' powers of Tomkins, Pearson and Company, but he 
had still a way of getting out, and generally contrived to 
evade the discussion. He used to spike the enemy’s 
guns, as he laughingly boasted to Joe Smith. Once, 
when Tomkins, Milmore and Jane were belaboring Catho- 
licity with all their might, and endeavoring to persuade 
Henry to “come forth from Babylon,” he took them all 
by surprise. 

“How, do you really suppose,” said he, that you are 


380 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


going to make a Protestant of me ? If you do, I tell 
you candidly, once for all, that you are egregiously mis- 
taken. No Catholic can tver become a Protestant in 
heart, though some may be found to conform outwardly 
for motives best known to themselves. As for me, 1 
have no mind to play the hypocrite, so you may give up 
the notion of making me a convert. I give you fair 
notice now, gentlemen, so that you may in future spare 
yourselves the trouble of angling for me. Believe me, 
you have no bait that can entice me.” 

“ But, my dear Mr. Blake,” said Tomkins, “ you seem 
to have cast olf much of the mire of Romish superstition ; 
I did hope that your excellent understanding was awak- 
ened to the saving knowledge of the truth which is 
in ” 

“ Don^t mention any sacred names, I pray you,” said 
Henry, laughing ; “ you and I understand each other, 
Mr. Tomkins, at least I hope so. Now, mark me, reve- 
rend sirs, I shall be always happy to see you in my house, 
and at my table, so long as you let me. alone about reli- 
gion ; but, if ever either of you renews this attack, from 
that moment my doors are closed against you. You 
may talk to my wife here as long as you please — provided 
you don't make a Mormon of her, and aggregate her to 
one or other of your families ; but, for me — I am a very 
bad Catholic, I am willing to own, but, I shall never be 
a Protestant.” 

The two ministers were extremely disconcerted ; for, 
to say the truth, each had been calculating on Henry as 
a convert for some time past, and this sudden annihila- 
tion of their hopes was more than they could bear with 
equanimity. It took a good solid slice of potted beef, 
ditto of cold roast mutton, washed down with half a hot- 


CONCLUSION. 


381 


tie or so of good old port, to revive the inner man of each 
reverend propagandist. Having paid their respects to 
the excellent lunch set before them, they began to feel 
better both inwardly and outwardly, and their contuma- 
cious host was assured by both that they would never 
again impugn his religious belief. It was all because 
of their pressing desire, they said, to secure his eternal 
salvation. 

“Many thanks, gentlemen,” said Henry, laughing, “for 
your kind anxiety about my spiritual welfare ; but, allow 
me to tell you, now that I am speaking plainly, that, 
when I consider my salvation in danger, I know who to 
call in. Let us eat, drink, and be merry, my good sins, 
and leave religion on the shelf for the present. It has 
been said of old that ‘ wine maketh the heart glad,’ — so 
it does ; but, religion maketh the heart sad — that is my 
conviction.” 

And well might Henry say so. To him religion wore 
the lowering aspect of ja. stern monitor, a severe mistress 
■ — he knew her not as the gentle soother of human woe— 
the one sweet drop in life’s bitter cup — the magic glass 
that brings the joys of heaven within the reach of the 
humble, hopeful Christian. He never knew the sweet- 
ness of religion ; how, then, could he love or prize it ? 

And so it was, too,'with his sister — nay, still worse. 
Although believing in her heart, like Henry, that all 
other religions were but a sham, still, she had not the 
firmness to adhere tocher own. Very early in her mar- 
ried life, she left off going to confession, simply because 
Zachary turned the practice into ridicule. When her 
mother used to remonstrate with her on the danger of 
such neglect, she would cut her short with : “ there’s nc 
use talking, ma ! I cannot, and will not have Zachary 


882 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


and all the Thomsons laughing at me. They do make 
such fun of me about confession that it makes me feel 
downright miserable. I must only wait for the chance 
of going unknown to any of them.” 

“ But, what if death came on you before you’d have 
the opportunity ?” 

“ Oh ! no fear of that, ma I I hope I shall have time 
to get the last sacraments — surely, God will not take me 
so very short.” 

“ There’s no saying, Eliza,” said her mother, gravely ; 
“ I was too long of your way of thinking myself, but, 
thanks to God and Father Power, both your father and 
I have had our eyes opened. Take care of what you’re 
about, Eliza — death might be nearer than you suppose.” 

Eliza smiled, and said : “ I hope not, ma I but you’re 
really enough to frighten one almost to death. There’s 
no use in your taking on so, for I have already told you, 
that confession is altogether out of the question — at 
least, for some time.” 

A strange presentiment seemed to hang over Mrs. 
Blake, so that she could not dismiss the subject as Eliza 
would have wished. 

“ And what about those poor children of yours,” said 
she ; “ what is to become of them ?” 

“ Why, of course, ma 1 I intend to bring the girls up 
Catholics, but Zachary insists on having the boys go with 
himself. Indeed, I’m afraid I shall have some trouble 
with Arabella, for she seems to be more of a Protestant 
than a Catholic. But, then, after a year or two more, I 
shall persuade Zachary to send her to the Sacred Heart, 
and that will make all straight. Evelina, too, must go 
when she gets to be nine or ten years old. Will that 
please you, ma ?” 


CONCLUSION. 


383 


Mrs. Blake was far from being satisfied ; but, as Eliza 
said, there was really no use in talking, so she had to 
give in for that time, though the dark foreboding still lay 
heavy on her heart almost unconsciously to herself. 

Eliza was then very near her confinement. Prepar- 
ations for the grand event were going on rapidly, and no 
cloud seemed to darken the bright heaven of her hopes. 
But the sky darkened all at once, and the lightning 
flashed, and the thunderbolt fell with an awful crash. 
Eliza got over her confinement well, and gave birth to 
another son ; but, immediately afterwards, inflammation 
set in, and she lived but a few hours. She had, still, 
time enough to make her peace with God ; but, her 
whole anxiety was to live, not to prepare for death. To 
the very last she could not believe it possible that she 
was to die — to be torn from her husband, her children, 
her happy home — so young, too^ and so unprepared. 
No I no ! it could not be — God could not be so cruel. 
Alas I God was not cruel ; he was only just. Mr. and 
Mrs. Blake were sent for in great haste when their 
daughter was found tp be in danger, and the first thing 
the mother did was to send off for the priest. Eliza her- 
self would not hear of the priest, because she could not 
believe herself in danger ; Zachary helped to keep up the 
illusion, saying it was time enough to send for a priest 
when there was no longer any hope. Meanwhile, Mrs. 
Blake’s messenger went to the priest’s house, but, there 
was no priest there. The two were out on sick-calls in 
opposite directions. After the lapse of half an hour or 
so, one of them came in, and set out immediately with 
the messenger. But he came too late. Death was 
before him. The soul was already gone to meet its 
judge, and to answer at the bar of Christ for all the 


384 


SLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


years and all the graces it had squandered away. Time 
was no more for Eliza Thomson ; she had departed ten 
minutes before the entrance of the priest, crying out, 
nay, shrieking, for “ a priest ! — a priest T’ — but no priest 
came. “ Oh ! mother 1’^ cried the wretched woman, 
“ mother, pray for me — but, what good can prayers do 
me ? I didn’t pray myself when I was able. I didn’t 
confess. I didn’t do anything for the other world, and 
here I am on its threshold.” 

“ Eliza, dear,” whispered her heart-wrung mother, 
“ pray to the Blessed Yirgin !” 

“ Ay I pray to her !” murmured* Eliza, “ pray to her 
now when I can’t help myself. I hav’n’t prayed to her — 
I let every one around me — even my own children — speak 
slightingly of her — oh I I have no friend ! — no friend I” 
Her voice failed her. She could only articulate, “ my 
poor — poor children I oh, Zachary ! have pity on them 
— and she spoke no more. Her death was not accompa 
nied with much bodily pain ; but, it was fearfully, 
awfully, sudden, and overshadowed with the dark wing 
of despair. Her features, hitherto so fair and so sweet 
in their expression, became, all at once, withered, and 
old, and stamped, as it were, with a heavy sorrow. 
Alas 1 for the death of the careless, indifferent Christian. 
Well might a great saint of modern times make it his 
constant prayer : “ Be my death sudden if thou wilt, oh, 
Lord ! but not unprovided !” 

Mrs. Blake never got over the effects of that shock. 
She died of a broken heart a few months after her 
daughter, leaving Miles lonelier and sadder than ever. 
Bending beneath the load of grief and remorse, uncared 
for, unpitied by his son, he would have been, indeed, a 
pitiable object with all his wealth. But Heaven had 


CONCLUSION. 


385 


! 


left him one resource. The Flanagans gathered round 
him with their kindest attentions ; and he was, finally, 
induced to take up his abode at Mr. Fitzgerald’s, where 
Ellie and her mother made his last days pass away more 
calmly and more happily than he had ever dared to 
expect. Henry sometimes represented to his wife, that 
it might be well to take the old man to live with them on 
account of his money, which he might be tempted to 
leave to the Flanagans. But Jane would never hear of 
any such thing. 

Let them have him,” she would say, “ and welcome. 
I wouldn’t be worried with his odd ways for all the 
money he has to leave. If he is so unnatural a father as 
to enrich fawning sycophants like them at the expense 
of his own flesh and blood, why, let him do it. We can 
get along without his money.” Henry demurred, occa- 
sionally, but, it was no use, Mrs. Henry was determined. 
The truth was, though she did not say so to her hus- 
band, she had a nervous fear of an old Catholic grand- 
father coming in contact with her children, fearing lest 
they might begin to backslide under his Jesuitical teach- 
ings. Like many others of her class, she had a very 
vague idea of Catholicity, and knowing nothing at all 
about Jesuits, or what they really were, she was in the 
habit of setting all good Catholics down as Jesuits, and it 
was the great business of her life to keep her husband 
from becoming Jesuitical. As for her children, she was 
quite sure of them, for she cleverly managed to keep 
them aloof from all “ Jesuitical influence,” i. e., Catholic 
society. And this was Jane’s hobby, if hobby she had. 
Eliza’s death had interfered with her plans considerably, 
for Henry was so frightened that he actually went to 
Mass four Sundays running, and was once in at the- Con- 
It 


886 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS^ 


fiteor. He even had an idea of going to confession, and [i 
did really go as far as the Church door, for that purpose, si 
one fine Saturday afternoon ; but, a professional friend I 
came up at the moment, and asked him where he was : 
going — was he going to Church? The satirical smile 
that accompanied the words was fatal to our poor 
friend. He said he was just going in to look at a certain 
painting lately placed in that Church, and invited the 
other to go with him. No, he thanked him, he was in 
too great a hurry just then. Some other time, perhaps ; 
but, in the meantime, he took Henry off with him to 
have a mint-julep at a neighboring saloon. Thajijsm& the 
turning-point in Henry Blake’s life, and his guarman* 
angel covered his face and wept. Confession was never 
again thought of, except, perhaps, in a dreamy sort of 
problematical way in connection with the closing scene 
of lifers drama. Meanwhile, Henry Blake’s sympathies 
are all with confession-hating people. He will descant 
in eloquent terms on the antiquated folly of praying for 
the dead, making use of holy water, venerating relics, 
and other such Catholic practices, and will go so far as 
to admit that the first Reformers were certainly right in 
endeavoring to prune the old tree from all such mon- 
strous excrescences — the growth of dark and supersti- 
tious times. He was particularly severe on the Pope, 
poor man I for “having or holding” any temporal 
power, and he was often heard to say that that alone 
was enough to make any sensible man ashamed of being 
a Catholic. The States of the Church were always a 
great abomination to Henry T. Blake. He thought the 
Pope had no business with temporal sovereignty, and 
that it was quite a mistake for him to pretend to any. 
The last accounts we heard of Henry, he was holding a 


CONCLUSION. 


881 

confidential correspondence with Mazzini, taking care, at 
the same time, to publish a fact so honorable to himself 
and the free country to which he had the happiness of 
belonging. In short, the Pope was a tyrant — the worst 
of all tyrants, a religious tyrant — and Henry T. Blake 
made up his mind to fraternize with any man who 
declared against him. The Austrian Emperor was bad 
enough, Napoleon the Third something worse, the Rus- 
sian Autocrat worse still ; but, worse than all was Pius 
the Ninth, the despot of Rome. Such were and are the 
sentiments of Mr. Henry T. Blake on that much-discussed 
question — the temporal power of the Pope. 

From this melancholy picture let us turn to one of a 
more cheerful character. Let us visit, for the last time, 
the quiet, happy home of Tom Reilly and his mother. 
The blessing of God was in them and on them, and year 
after year their affairs prospered more and more. Tom, 
though considered close and hard by all his acquaintances, 
was yet a bountiful benefactor to the poor. What he 
gave to them he gave in secret, knowing that our heavenly 
father seeth in secret. Tom was in no way ostentatious 
and least of all in his charity. Even his mother hardly 
knew the full extent of his liberality, though, in othe? 
respects, he made it a rule to consult her in all his affairs. 
True it was that Tom never spent his money, like other 
young men, at the theatre, for Tom had a wholesome dis- 
like to theatres. He never went “on the spree,” and 
seldom indulged in mint-juleps, sherry-cohhlers, or any other 
such bacchanalian devices. It was no wonder, then, that 
he was set down as hard and saving. But there was no 
institution of Catholic charity in the city to which Tom 
was not a contributor, and many a desolate home was 
made cheerful at times by his pitying kindness. It was 


388 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


his pride to have his mother as well dressed as any woman 
of her age need to be, and every summer he insisted on 
her going for some weeks to Staten Island, or Rockaway, 
or some other watering-place. At first, Mrs. Reilly was 
very unwilling to go without her son, but in order to ensure 
her compliance, Tom always induced some of her friends 
to go with her at his expense. There was not in New 
York city a happier pair than Tom and his worthy 
mother. They had a nicely-furnished house, small indeed, 
but tasteful and comfortable. Together they went out, 
and together they came in. Mrs. Reilly was a weekly 
communicant, and Tom made it a point, of late years, to 
receive every month. The fate of the Blakes and the 
Dillons was a salutary lesson to him, though he had never 
been to say careless in regard to his religious duties. 
Mrs. Reilly and her son had a god-child in every family 
amongst their friends, and one of Mike Sheridan’s boys 
was called after Father O’Flynn, of illustrious memory. 
This was a compliment that won the good lady’s heart, 
and many a handsome suit of clothes, and many a costly 
toy was provided by her for the little Bernard, whom she 
set down as a future priest. When any cloud over- 
shadowed Mrs. Reilly’s mind, or any difficulty arose in 
the housekeeping department, she would go down to Fred 
Fitzgerald’s and have a talk with Mrs. Flanagan, and 
that generally served to put all to rights, for Mrs. Flana- 
gan was still and ever the same prudent, judicious, kindly 
creature, and she was looked up to with love and respect, 
not only by her own family, but by every one with whom 
she was acquainted. 

It is needless to say that Zachary Thomson soon found 
it necessary to marry again, and his second wife being a 
Protestant, of some advanced sect, poor Eliza’s children 


CONCLUSION. 


389 


were brought up in evangelical religion — I am not quite 
sure but it was Unitarianism. That was what their step- 
mother professed, though, being rather a strong-minded 
woifian, she considered herself fully competent to choose 
a religion for herself and modify it, when chosen, to suit 
her own peculiar views. Of course the children were 
carefully trained up in the way they should go, especially 
as the second Mrs. Thomson had none of her own to claim 
her solicitude. 

Mrs. Henry Blake became quite hostile to the Flana- 
gan family on account of Miles’s expected legacy. In- 
deed, she could hardly speak of them with patience, and 
used to take occasion, from their supposed delinquency, 
to say that hypocrisy and cunning always went together. 
The Flanagans used to smile when any of these stray 
reports or observations reached them, and “Time will 
tell,” was their only answer. They had done all they 
could to persuade Miles to make a will in favor of his 
grandchildren, but Miles, with his characteristic obstinacy, 
utterly refused. At length, however, he was induced to 
make a compromise, dividing one-half of his money be- 
tween the children of Henry and Eliza, and leaving the 
other half for distribution amongst the Catholic charities 
of the city. He would fain have left some mark of his 
gratitude to each of the Flanagan’s, but they all posi- 
tively refused. They did not need it, they said, and even 
if they did, they would not have their names in the will 
on any account, for fear of giving scandal to those who 
would be but too well pleased to get hold of such a 
handle. This, however, was not to be known till Miles’s 
death, which had not occurred when we last heard of the 
family. 


390 


BLAKES AND FLANAGANS. 


A nd now that I have brought my story to a close, I 
would beg all Catholic parents to “ look on this picture, 
and on this.’’ It is for themselves to choose whether they 
will have such sons as Tom Reilly, and Mike Sheridan, 
and Edward Flanagan, or Henry T. Blake and Hugh 
Dillon — daughters like Ellie Flanagan, or like Hannah 
and Celia Dillon. Dnder God, it depends entirely on 
themselves. I have carefully avoided all exaggeration or 
undue coloring in this simple tale. I have merely strung 
together a number of such incidents as we see occurring 
every day in the world around us, growing out of the 
effects of good or bad education. If it be true — and I 
fear it is — that a large proportion of the children of 
Catholic parents are lost to the Church in America, it is 
altogether owing to the unaccountable folly of the parents 
themselves in exposing their children to perish. Catholic 
parents who so act are more inhuman than the heathens 
of China and of Madagascar who destroy their helpless 
infants. They throw them to be eaten by dogs or swine, 
or expose them to the savage denizens of the forest, but 
what is the destruction of the body in comparison to that 
of the soul ? Ah I it would be well if Catholic parents 
would think more of these things than they do. If they 
would only consider that they are accountable to God 
and his Church for the precious gift of faith, and are 
bound, under pain of deadly sin, to transmit it to their 
children pure and undefiled, they would not dare to send 
those children to godless schools, where they are almost 
sure to lose that precious inheritance, or to have it so 
shorn of its splendor, so poor and so feeble, that it is no 
longer worth having. The faith of a young man or a 
'young woman, brought up under un-Catholic training, is 


CONCLUSIO N. 


891 


no more the faith of their fathers or mothers, than the 
Tile brass-ware displayed on street stalls is the pure gold 
of the jeweller. 

In conclusion, I will lay before the reader some appro- 
priate remarks on this subject, from the pen of an Ameri- 
can prelate : “ Though the Catholic Church in this coun- 
try has increased much more largely by conversions than 
is generally supposed, yet, for the most part, its rapid 
development has been owing to the emigration of Catho- 
lics from foreign countries ; and, if we desire to make 
this increase permanent, and to keep the children in the 
faith of their fathers, we must, above all things, take 
measures to imbue the minds of the rising generation 
of Catholics with sound religious principles. This can 
only be done by giving them a good Catholic education. 
In our present position, the school-house has become 
second in importance only to the House of God itself. 
We have abundant Cause for thankfulness to God on 
account of the many blessings which he has conferred on 
us ; but we will show. ourselves unworthy of these bless- 
ings if we do not do all that is in our power to promote 
every good work by which they may be increased and 
confirmed to those who shall come after us.”* 

• Bight Rev. Dr. Bayley’s Ilistory of the Catholic Church in Ifew Torh, 


THE END 




/ 


y . 'f. •• •*''} . • •; ;; - A 

,'../,Vi . . v4 . - - >-‘.;Tr»y»7-»>»* ■ • ^ - ■■ 




V' 


1 *.^ '•'•■•>; s'. ,, .-j,. - . 

-I-J, 

'■:" ' • ■ , ,v^ ,...' . -;,rr 

■ • ■* 1 >« • ‘ y ' J ' k I V - .'.-r •' ''r ' r - ,*■“.> i'-- . -r 

. ' • ■ ■ ’ ^ ^ e* 1 -; t tt ^ ;.'J. ,■ -. •-V*, 

3 «> . >. . .. . , . -r;-' f ' • . , ^ . 

‘v oM^*' . i,| ’. .<:t '. Y* ... » 

’^)*, /.^v*)r‘. :fir fuJ'i 




’/ %» 

‘ ■ ; 4 ' 


-Y 






... 

, f V t H**- *1 M 


..■Cf ‘W"’ 


’ • > K •’ * ' '•■ 


r.; 

A. - 





>MS 


OF 



STANDARD CATHOLIC WORKS. 

PUBLISHED BY 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 

No. 164 William Street, New York ; 128 Federal Street, Boston! 
Corner of Notre Dame and St. Francis Xavier Streets, 
Montreal, Canada East. 

AND OFFERED TO COLLEGES, RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS, BOOK- 
SELLERS, AND DEALERS GENERALLY, AT PRICES BUT 
LITTLE BEYOND THE COST OF MANUFACTURE. 


Lives of the Fathers, Martyrs, and other principal 
Saints, (Sadlier’s Edition), By the Rev. Alban Butler, 
as originally published by him in twelve, now complete in four volumes, 
royal octavo, containing upwards of 3100 pages of letter-press, printed 
in a clear, bold type, with marginal lines, from entirely new stereotype 
plates, which for beauty and excellence of finish cannot be excelled. To 
this edition is now added the Lives of all the Saints canonized in 1S39, 
under the pontificate of Pope Gregory XVI., of blessed memory ; with 
the celebrated preface written by the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle, Bishop ol 
Kildare and Leighlin ; making this edition the most perfect ever jmblished 
in Kurope or this country, and altogether forming a complete Catholic 
Library, a copy of which should be in the possession of every Catholic fam- 
ily, This edition also contains 25 fine steel engravings, and four illumi- 
nated titles in various bindings, with the approbation of the Most Rev. 
JoH.\ Huohes, D. D., Archbishop of New York, and 29 Archbishop.? and 
Bishops of the Catholic Church — printed on the finest paper, suj)er extra 
and flexible, in English or French sy le, bevelled, gilt edges, $16 00. Tur- 
key super extra. $14 00. American Morocco, gilt sides and edges, $12 
60. American Morocco, marbled edges, $10 60. Embossed Sheep extra, 
spring backs, marble edges, $9 00. 

QlJ- The Publishers, at the solicitation of several clergymen, being desi- 
rous of extending the circulation of this inestimable work, have resolved 
to issue a cheap edition, to suit the wants of such persons as cannot afford 
to buy the more expensive copies, but they strongly recommend all those 
who can purchase their illustrated edition, injll instances to take them in 
prelerence to this cheap edition, as from the extraordinary care which 
they bestow on the printing and binding of the former, they can, w’ith the 
fullest confidence assert that no work published here or elsewhere, will 
be found cheaper, or give more general satisfaction. 

Sadlier’s Cheap Edition of Butler’s Lives of the Saints, 

In 4 vols. royal octavo, complete, with one engraving in each, full cloth, 
rmbossed, lettered, $5 00. Half Roan cloth sides, strong, $5 00 12 vols 

halt bound, for Librari is, $3 00. 


2 


D. AND J. SADLIER AND CO. S 


Holy Bible, [Superb New Edition,] From the Version 
ot llie Douay ami Klieims. 'i’ran^lated liom the Latjn Vulgate, and 
dihgently compared with Uie Hebrew, tiieek, and other editions in 
various languages. Annotations, beterences, 'J‘al)les, , by Ilje ven- 
erable Dr. Clialloner, V A., with Ward's hirala ol the Piolestant Bible 
with tile approbation of the Most Kev. JOHN IJUOHi'.S, D. D., Arch 
bishop of New i'ork. Printed on line paper, illustrated with 26 engra 
vings.^and bound in the best style ol ait. Imperial quarto, bevctied 
flexible", $11 bO. Imperial quarto, flexible, clasps, $1-1 60. Itrij)eriu? 
quarto, antique carved and panelled, $16 00. Imperial quarto, paiutef 
medallion, $22 00. 

Holy Bible, [Illustrated Edition,] Translated from ihs 
Latin Vulgate, and diltgently compared with the Hehrew, Greek, and 
other editions in various languages. Annotations, Tables, Ate , i>y* tne 
venerable Dr. Chailoner, V. A., printed on fine paper with 17 steel engra- 
vings, and W’anPs Krrata of the Protestant Bible. Royal quaito. Iniil. 
calf, marble edges, $6 00. Inut. morocco, marble edges, $6 60. Imit. 
morocco, gilt edges, $7 60 Morocco, extra flexible, $9 00. Morocco, 
extra flexible, clasps, $12 00 

Sadliers’ Extraordinary Cheap Edition of the Holy 
Bible. 'I'he great detnaiid lor tlie Douay Bible amongst the 
Catholics of the United States anti Canada, has induced the i>ul)lishers to 
issue this edition, which, for ciieapness and durability, cannot be equal- 
led. It contains 4 steel engravings, family records, with historical, and 
chronological tables, &c. it also possesses these two great advantages 
overall other Bibles jiublished in the United istates, lirst, that the print 
IS considerably larger, and secondly, that the himling is more durable. 
Quarto, good stout sheep, $2 26. Imitation morocco, marlde edges, $3 
26. Imitation calf, marble edges, $3 25. Imitation morocco, gilt edges, 
10 plates, $4 50. Imitation morocco, extra, gill edges, 10 plates, $6 01). 

Holy Bible Translated from the Batin Vulgate, 12 mo. 

strong sheep, $l 00. 12mo , roan, $1 60. 

Douay Testament, with Annotations, and chronologic.al, and 
analytical tables, as approved by the Mo.sl Kev. John Hughes, D. D., 
Archbishop of New York. ISmo., cloth extra, 37^0. 


GERMAN BIBLES. 


The Holy Bible in German, with Annotations, Rrferen 
ces, l'al)ie.s, Stc., by Rev. Joseph 'J ninz Allioli, D. D., with the approba 
tioi) of the Most Rev. JOHN HLGHKS, D D., .\rchliishof) ol New 
York, rrinled on fine pai)er, and illustrated with 16 steel engiavings 
and four family records. Imperial S\o. Turkey, super extra, hovelled, 
clasj)s, ;fl0 .^0. Turkey, super exira, heveiled, f8 00. Turkey, super, 
extia, $7 dO. American morocco, gilt edges, $6 .'>0. Turkey, extra, 
marbled edges, Jio iO. Roan, plain edges, ’ 

The Holy Bible in German. Cheap Edition. Royal Svo. 

American Morocco, gill edges, $4 00. Aineiican morocco, marbled 
tjdgcs, $3 00. Sheep, plain edges, $2 00. 


CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BOOKS. 


3 


Testament in German, with Annotations References, Ta- 
bles. &c.. by Uev. Joseph Traiiz Allioli, D. D. 8vo , large ty pe, fiiu> 
paper. Halt' houDil, 76c. Sheep, $l 00. 




The History of the Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ, fr^n 

bis Incarnation until his Ascension, denoting and incorporating tne word 
of the Sacred Text from the V'^nlgate. Also, The History of tl.o Acts Oi 
the .Aposties, oonnecteil, explained, and t)lended with reflections. 'I lans- 
lated fioni the French of Father Francis De Ligny, of the Society ot 
Jesus, by .Mrs. J. Sadlier With the approhatian of the .Most Rev JOHN 
HUGHES, D. D., Archbishop of New Vork. 1'his splendid work is now 
ready ; making one of the most l)eautiful works printed. Illustrated with 
13 splendid steel engravings. 760 pages imperial octavo. < loth, extra, 
$4 00. English, imitation, marbled edges. $5 00. Imitation gilt edges, 
$6 00 Morocco, extra, $7 00. Flexible, bevelled, 00. 

This is the only complete Life of Christ and his ..dpostles published 
in the English language. The Catholic press have spoken of the work in 
the most favorable manner. 


Essays and Reviews on Theology, Politics, and So- 
cialism. Ry 0. A. Biowiison, LL. 1). One volume, 536 
pages, royal 1‘Jmo., printed on line paper. Cloth, extra, $l 25. Sheep, 
extra, library, 60. 

CONTENTS. 


The Church against no Church. | 
The Episcopal Observer versus the 
Church. 

Thorn well's Answer to Dr. Lynch, 
(.April and October, IS49.) 
Protestantism ends in Transcenden- 
talism. 

Protestantism in a Nutshell. 
Authority and Liberty. 


Political Constitutions. 

War and Loyalty. 

The Higher Law. 

Catholicity necessary to sustain pop 
ular Liberty. 

Legitimacy and Revolutionism. 
Native Americanism. 

Labor and Association. 

Socialism and the Church. 

Postage '24 cents 


*iistory of the Variations of the Protestant Churches. 

By Rt. Rev. James Benign Bossnet, D. D , Bishop of .Meanx. Two vols. 
12ino. This is one of the most celebrated works in the Catholic Library. 
It is styled by Mosheim. the Protestant Church Historian, “7'lie Bul- 
wark of Popery.” Cloth extra, $1 50. Postage 36c. 

. (KJ~ Til is celebrated work is now offered to the public at onc-half its 
former price. 

Religion in Society, or the Solution of Great Problems 
placed within the reach of every mind, n'ran.slatcd from the French of 
the .Abbe .Martinet. With an introduction by the Most Itev. JOHN 
HUGHES, D. U , .Archbishop of New Vork. 1 vol l'2mo., cloth, $l 00. 
“ KkuinioN IN SociKTY. — (Grands Prohlemes) — We rejoice to state that 
this very interesting work of the .Abbe .Martinet, in an excellent Fneli.sh 
translation, is now published and ready. This is a book for every t'atholkj 
that reads ; and a book for every person that reads Catholic hooks. Wc 
ihall hasten to give it a fuller notice.”— Afeui York Freeman's Journal. 

Postage ‘iOo- 


4 


D. AND J. SADLIER AND CO.*S 


Christian Directory, Guiding Men to Eternal Salvationj 
by the Rev. Robert Parson, of the Society of Jesus. 1 vol., royal 12mo., 
600 pages. Cloth, extra, $l 25. Postage 30c. 

The Life of St. Elizabeth, of Hungary, Duchess of 
Thurugia. By the Count De Montalembert, Peer of France. 
Translated from the French, by Mary Hackett, and Mrs. J. Sadlier. One 
vol. Royal 12mo. Fine paper, with a splendid portrait aRer Overbeck, 
engraved on steel. Cloth extra, $1 00. Cloth, gilt, $1 60. English mo- 
rocco, extra, $2 00. Postage 20c. 

In the translation of this work, published in Dublin, the introdue. 
tion, which forms about 150 pages of the original, and nearly one-third of 
the whole w’ork was omitted. Our edition will contain the entire work. 
This is one of the most interesting biographies in any language. We defy 
even the most lukewarm Catholic to read it, without inwardly thanking 
God that he belongs to a Church that can produce such purity, and holi- 
ness, and so much humility and self-denial as is exemplified in the life of 
the “ dear St. Elizabeth.” Postage 24 cents. 

The Following of Christ. New Translation from the Ori- 
ginal Latin, in four books, by Thomas a Kempis. To W'hich are added 
Practical Reflections, and a prayer at the end of each chapter, with the 
approbation of -p NICHOLAS, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster. 
+ JOHN, Archbishop of New York. New and elegant edition, printed 
on the finest paper, W'ith a splendid steel frontispiece, 600 pages, ISmo., 
and bound in the following styles : — Full cloth, or roan, gilt edges, $1 00. 
English Morocco, extra, $ I 50. Morocco, super, extra, $2 00. .Morocco 
super, extra flexible, bevelled, $2 60. 24mo. edition, same type, cloth, 
plain, 37^ cents. Roan, plain, 60c. Roan, gilt edges, 76c. 

Postage, from 10 to 20c. 

“ This is the finest edition of the ‘ Following of Christ ’ ever printed on 
this side of the Atlanntic. Every Catholic, whether old or young, should 
have a copy of this treasure of a book Montreal True Witness. 

“A beautiful copy of the well-known devotional work of Thomas 
4 Kempis, which has so long been regarded with favor by the whole Chris- 
tian world. This edition is one of the finest specimens of American typo- 
graphy and paper, particularly in a religious work, which we have ever 
seen .” — NortoiVs Litei ary Gazette. 

New Month or Graces of Mary. Compiled by the 

Fathers of the Oratory of St. Philip, of Neri ; to which is added Prayers 
at Mass and Vespers, with other devotions for the month of May, with 
the approbation of the -J- Most Rev. JOHN HUGHES, D. D., Archbishop 
of New York. New and elegant edition, printed on the finest paper, 
with a splendid steel fronti-spiece, 600 pages, 18mo , and bound in the fol 
lowing styles Roan, gilt edges, $1 00. English Morocco, extra, $1 
60. Morocco super, extra, $2 00. Morocco flexible, bevelled, $2 60. 
24mo. edition, same type, cloth, plain, 37^0. Roan, plain, 50c Roan 
gilt edges, 76c. Postage, 16c. 

Lives of the Saints of the Desert, and many Holy Men 
and Women who have dwelt in Solitude. By the Rt Rev. Richard Chal- 
loner, D. D., with additional Lives, translated from the French, by Mrs. 
J. Sadlier. Printed ou fine paper, 2 plates, in one volume, OOO'pages 
16mo. Cloth, extra, 75c. Cloth, extra, gilt edges, $1 12. 

Postage 18c. 


» • 


CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BOOKS. 


t 


Rome and the Abbey. By the Authoress of “Geraldine, 
a Tele of Conscience.” limo. of 41‘2 pages, with '2 plates, printed on fine 
paper. Cloth extra, 75c. Postage, 18c. 

Doctrinal and Scriptural Catechism. By the Rev. Pere 

Collet, Doctor of the borbonne. 'I'ranslated from the French, by Mrs. 
J. Sadlier. For tlie use ol the Brothers of the Christian Schools. 

This is considered by competent judges as the most complete, and, 
*t the same time, the most concise C'atechism of the Christian Iteligion and 
of Scripture History that has yet been oft'ered to the public. It is admirably 
adapted for adults requiring instruction, as well as for children. The aiv 
Bw ers a? e all so condensed that they are easily comniitted to memory ; and 
there is not a single jioint coiinected with religion, either of doctrine, dis- 
cipline, or ceremonial, that is not fully explained. 

We know that this work requires only to be known to secure for it a 
very wide circulation. In order to place the woik within the reach of ev- 
ery person, we have determined to put it at the following low prices : — 
iqmo. 440 pages, half-bound, 37^0. Cloth, 50c. To Schools and Colleges 
^•45 per 100. 

Reeve’s History of the Holy Bible, comprising the most 
remarkable events in the Old and New Testaments, interspersed with 
Moral and Instructive Reflections, chiefly taken from the Holy Fathers. 
By the Rev. Joseph Reeve. Illustrated with -230 engravings. 12mo of 
683 pages. Price only 60 cents 

This is beyond doubt the cheapest book ever issued from the Ameri- 
can press. Just fancy a book of 583 pages, and *230 cuts, well bound, for 
only 60 cents. 

History of the Christian Church, from her Birth to her 
Final 'J'riurnphant State in Heaven ; chiefly deduced from the Apoca- 
lypse of St. John, the Apostle and Evangelist. By Sig. Pastorini. Neat 
English muslin, 75c. 

Cobbett’s History of the Reformation. The History of 

the Reformation in England and Ireland ; showing how that event has 
impoverished the main body of the people in those countries. By Wil 
liam Cobbett. Two vols. bound in one. 

00=- The second volume contains a list of the Priories, Nunneries, Ab- 
bej^. Hospitals, and other religious foundations seized on, or alienated, by 
the “Protestant Reformation,” Sovereigns and Parliaments; with an Ap- 
pendix, containing Cobbett’s Three Letters to the Pope, the Earl of Roden, 
and the Clergy of the Church of England, making this valuable book the 
only complete edition ever published in this country. Such was the great 
tstimation in which this work was held when first published, that it was 
translated into five different languages. 18mo., 660 pages of neat and clos« 
letter press, on fine paper, cloth extra, 75c. Postage 20c. 

Oobbett’s Legacies, two volumes complete in one. The 
first volume consist.^ of Six Letters addressed to the Church Parsons in 
general The second volume is addressed to the working classes, with 
Dedication to Sir Robert Peel, Bart. ISmo., large type, full cloth, 37^0. 

Postage, 12 cents. 

Pope and Maguire’s Discussion. 12mo. fine paper, 75c. 

Perhaps no discussion ever excited so much attention as this. Rev. 
Mr. Pope was an itinerant controversialist, who went about challenging 


6 


D. AND J SADLICU AND CO.’S 


the i’riests to come loi th aiul defend tWe doctrines of tlieir Cdiurch,— the 
Rev. r. Magune accepted the ciialienge. L'p to iliat lime his name was 
scan'ely known be\ond tiie piecinct^ oi his ptnsh. (whicii was situated in 
tlie mountains ol Leitrim.) but after the disoi!ss:on, “ fattier Maguire^ 
became the most popular Priest in Ireland Pope retired fiom tlie contest 
conscious of defeat, lor he never cliallenged any more l*riests. 

The End of Controversy; by the Kf. Rev, Dr. Milner. To 
which is added, his Address to the Lord Bishop of St David’s, and hii 
Postscript to the same. l’2mo., with Apostolic Three Cloth e^tra, 

Ward’s Cantos ; or England’s Reformation ; a poem c f' 
four ('antos, by Thomas Ward, Csq To which are added, Puhlishor's 
Prelace, Idle of the Author, Notes to justify the facts related, and several 
additions faithfully extracted from the Author's ManuscriDt. IBino., fine 
paper, clear type, oOc. 

Ward’s Errata of the Protestant Bible. A Work show- 
ir.g the errors of the Protestant Translations of the Scriptures Imjierial 
8vo., half bound, oOc. 

A History of the First Beginning and Progress of the 
Protestant Religion, by way of question and answer. 
By Bishop Challoner. A most excellent and instructive w ork. ISnio.* 
clear type. Cloth, ISc. 

Practical Piety, set forth by St. Francis of Sales^ Bishop 
and Prince of (yeneva. Collecteil from his Letters, Discourses and Med* 
itatious. Translated from the French. 18mo. Cloth extra, 50c. 

Postage 15 cents. 

St- Augustine’s Confessions. Translated from the Latin, 

by a Catholic Clergyman. ISmo. 3S4 pages. Price 50c. 

Tlie above is a work that should be in the hands of every Catholic 
The name of the Author is a sulticient guarantee of its usefulness. 

Duty of a Christian Towards God. Being an improved 

version of the original Treatise, W'rilteii by the venerable J B. Salle, 
Founder of the Brotiiers of the Christian School. Tran^ilated from the 
French by Mrs J. Sadlier, with the Prayers at Mass, ami the Rules ol 
(Christian Politeness. 12mo. 400 pages’ Half-bound, 37^ cents, C.'oth 
extra, 50 cents. 

The Mission of Death. A Tale of the New York Penal 
Laws, by M. F. Walworth, i vol. l3mo. Fine paper, cloth extra, 50c. 
P'ull gilt, 75c. Postage I5c. 

Life of the Rt. Rev. Dr. Doyle, Bishop of Kildare and 

Leigldin. With a Portrait. 

(KT- Ihe Life of this l*atriot Bishop should be in the house of every 
ralholic ; moie especially those of Irish origin. It gives a summaty ol 
his examination before the House of Lords, on the f'atbolic qtiestioii It 
is a work which every Irish father should place in the hands of his child- 
ren, as his name should be engraved indelibly upon the hearts of Irish 
men and their otfspring. 

Catholic Christian Instructed, in the Sacraments, SacrU 
fices. Ceremonies, an] Observances of the Church. By lit. Rev. li 


CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BO(^KS. 


7 


Ciialloner, I). D. Large type, 18mo. Flexible cloth, 26c. Cloth extra 
Sbc. Postage 10c. 

Manual of Devotions to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 

Containing a Novena and other exercises for the use of the menit)crs of 
the Confraternity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 24mo. Cloth extra, 23c 

Postage 8c. 

The Christian Instructed; or Precepts for Livina; Chris 
tianly in the World. From the Italian of Father Quadnipani, with se 
lections from the works of St. Francis de Sales, and the ee7i Sta 
tions of Jtrusalem, approved by lit. Rev. Bishop Fitzpatrick. I arge 
type, 24mo. Cloth extra, 26c. Postage 8c. 

Think Well On’t; or Reflections on the Great Truths of 
the Christian Religion for every day of the month. By tlie Rt. Rev. R. 
Challoner, D. D. 32mo. Cloth extra, 19c. Postage 4c. 

Nine Days’ Devotion ; or a Novena, preparatory to the 
Feast of St Patrick, Apostle and Patron of Ireland ; to which is aiided. 
Devotions for Confession and Communion, Prayers at Mass, and Stations 
of the Cross. Cloth, flexible, 15c. Postage 8c. 


Tales of the Festivals. In Fancy Paper Covers, with a 

Plate in each. Price 7c. In packages of Six, 38c, 


No. 1. 

Month of Mary. 

The Feast of Corjms Christi. 


Na 2. 

The Feast of the Sacred Heart of 
Jesus. 

Feast i)f the Assumption. 

No. 3. 

Feast of the Nativity. 

Feast of the Purification. 

Bound 

Cloth, gilt edges, 63c. 


No. 4. 

Feast of Ash-Wednesday. 

Fe.stival of the Annunciation 

No. 5. 

Festival of the Holy Week. 
Festival of Faster. 

No. 6. 

Rogation day. 

F'east of Pentecost. 

Cloth extra, 3Sc. 
Postage 12c. 


in one vol. 24mo. Seven plates, fine paper. 

Cloth extra, gilt edges, 7oc. 


Blanche Leslie ; or The Living: Rosary, and other Tales, 
for young people. In Fancy Paper Covers, with a plate in each. Price 
7c. In packages of Six, 38c- . 


No. 1. 

Blanche Leslie ; or, the Living Ro- 
sarv 

Tl>e l.ictle Italians ; or. the Lost 
Children of Mount St. Bernard. 
Tower of Prayer. 

No. 2. 

rilen’s Dream 

F,astcr : or, the Two Mothers. 

No. 3. 

The Poor Widow. 

A Tale ol the Ardennes. 


The Cherries. 

No Virtue without a Struggle. 

No. 4. 

Seven Corpoial Works of Mercy. 

No. 5. 

Hans, the Miser. 

Perrien and Lncette. 

The Envious rfirl Reformed, 

No. 6. 

Div.me Providence. 

Lucy’s Pilgrimage. 

Little Adam the (lardencr. 


Bound in one vol. 24mo. Seven plates, fine paper. 
Ciotli.. gilt edges, 63c. Cloth Extra, gill edges, 76c. 


Clotli extra, 38f 
Postage 12c. 


9 D. AND J. SADLIER AND CO.’C 


Benjamin; or, Pupil of the Christian Brothers. Translated 
from the French, by Mrs. J. Sadlier. 24mo. Cloth extra 25c. Full 
gilt, 37ic. 

The Life of the Blessed Virgin. To which is added a 
Novena in honor of Her Immaculate Conception, with an Historical ac- 
count of the Origin and Efl'ects of the MIRACULOUS MEDAL, and 
the Life and Death of the Child of Mart. 2 plates, large type 
24mo., revised by the late Very Rev. Felix Varella. Cloth extra, '26 
Gilt edges, 37^0. 


CATHOLIC CHURCH MUSIC. 


The Catholic Choir Book j or The Morning and Evening 
Service of the Catholic Church. Comprising a choice collection of 
Gregorian and other Masses, Litanies, Psalms, Sacred Hymns, Anthems, 
Versicles, and Motets, selected and newly arranged from the composi- 
tions of the first masters. Compiled and respectfully dedicated to the 
Rt. Rev. Dr. Fenwick, by R. Garbett, Esq. $2 00. 

The Catholic Harp, containing the Morning and Evening 
Service of the Catholic Church ; embracing a choice collection ol 
Masses, Litanies, Psalms, Sacred Hymns, Anthems, Versicles, and Mo- 
tets, all selected from the compositions of the first masters ; compiled 
by Philip A. Kirk. Half bound, 37 Jc. 


Eight Easy Pieces of Sacred Music, for Four Voices ; 
Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass, with the Accompaniment of the Organ 
Composed and dedicated to the Rt. Rev. J. B. Fitzpatrick, Bishop of Bos 
toH, by A. Werner, Organist at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross 


No. 1 Asperges me. 
“ 2 Alma. 

“ 3 Ave Regina. 
** 4 Regina Cceli 
Price 37i cents. 


CONTENTS. 

No. 6 Salve. 

“ 6 Tantum Ergo. 

“ 7 Veni Creator spiritus. 

“ 8 Passion Canticle. 

Postage 2c. 


SADLIER’S FIRESIDE LIBRARY. 

In 18mo. vols., from 300 to 400 pages. 

lUtistrateil with engravings, printed on fine paper, and bound in Cioili 
extra, price, 60 cents per vol. 

No. I. 

Orphan of Moscow; or, The Young Governess. A tale 

translated from the French of Madame Woillese, by Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
Illustrated with steel engraving and illuminated title. Cloth 60o. Gilt 
edges, 76c 


CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BOOKS. 


9 


No. II. 

The Castle of Roussillon; or Quercy in the Sixteenth Cen- 
tury. A tale translated from the French of Madame Eugene de la Ro- 
chere, by Mrs. J. Sadlier. Cloth extra, 60c. Steel plate, gilt edges, 75c. 

No. m. 

Sick Calls : from the Diary of a Missionary Priest. By th» 

Rer. Edward Price, M. A. 2 steel plates, cloth extra, 50c., gilt edges, 

No. IV. 

Life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, o» 
Lily of Israel. Translated from the French of the AbM 
Gerbert. ISmo. of 400 pages. Steel frontispiece. Price 50c. to $1 00. 


No. V. 

Now Lights ; or Life in Galway. A Tale of the New Re- 
formation. By Mrs. J. Sadlier. ISmo. of 450 pages, with 2 engrarings 
Cloth, 50c. Full gilt, $1 00. 

The main object of this story is to bring under the notice of Catho 
lies in America, and of Irish Catholics in particular, the nefarious system 
of proselyting going on from day to day, and from year to year, in the re- 
mote and famine-stricken districts of Ireland ; the fearful persecutions and 
temptations by which the starving poor are incessantly assailed, and their 
steadfast adherence (with comparatively few exceptions) to the ancient 
faith of their fathers. 

No. VI. 

The Poor Scholar, and other Tales of Irish Life. By 
William Carleton. Illustrated with two plates. Price 50c. cloth extra, 
76c. gilt. 


No. vn. 

Tales of the Five Senses. By Gerald Griffin, Author of 
" Half Sir,” “ Collegians,” with a portrait of the Author. Cloth extra, 
60c., gilt, 76c. 

No. vin. 

Tnbber Derg; or the Red Well, and other Tales of Irish 

Life. By William Carleton. 2 plates. Cloth extra, 60c. Gilt, 75c. 

(jQh Other volumes in Press. 

In Press, Nos. IX, X, XI. 

A Collection of Irish Tales, by Mrs. J. Sadlier. Com 

prising amongst others, the following : — Father Shehey ; The Daughtel 
of I'yrconnell; Fate of the Shearcs’ ; Norma.n Steel, or The Priest 
Hunter; The Later Days of the O’Reillys; O’Grady, or The Expatri 
atod ; Granu Wail, a Tale of the Desmonds, Sic., &c. 

Some of these Tales appeared in the Boston Pilot, and others of 
them were published in a collected form, entitled “Tales of the Olden 
Time. They will form three 50 cent volumes,— each volume complete in 
itself. Revised and corrected by the Author. 


/ 


10 


D. AND J. SADLIER AND CO.'S 


STANDARD CATHOLIC PRAYER BOOKS. 


The following Prayer Books are all printed on fine paper, in clear, bold 
type, and tor beauty ol finish, and dm ability of binding, cannot be ex- 
celieil. "J’hey contain all the Pi^ayersarul Devotions used by < atholic^ 
all carefully revised, and published with the approbation ofhis Kniinenc# 
Cardinal WIS^^^IAN, Archbishop of Westminster, and the Most Ret 
JOHN HUGHES, D. D., Archbishop of New Y ork : 

The Golden Manual, being a Guide to Catholic Devotion, 

Puhlicand Piivate. Compiled from approved sources. ISmo, 1041 pages. 
Neatly bound in sheep, I plate, 7oc. Roan, plain, 1 jdate, $1 00. Roan, 
antiqu** edges, 1 plate, $1 ‘io. Roan, gilt edges, I plate, $1 ‘25. Anieri* 
can morocco, gilt edges, 6 plates, $1 75. Englisli morocco, gilt edges, 8 
jilaies. ^'2 00. Morocco, extra illuminated, t* plates, $2 50. Moiocco, 
extra illuminated, cias]>s, $3 *25. 

J^iiie Papei'f Illuminated Tilley 12 Plates* 

Morocco, bevelled, $3 00. Morocco, bevelled, clasps. $3 75. Morocco, 
anticpie. clasps, $5 50. Rich velvet, clasps and corners, paper cases. $9 
00. Rich velvet, medallion on the side, $10 00. Also, various styles, 
from $10 <X) to $20 00. 

This Manual contains, in addition to forms in general use, various 
Devotions selected from approved Continental works, making it the most 
comjilete Manual ever jmblished in the English lar guage. The Prayers, 
Litanies, kc , &c , have been collated with the Latin originafs. wlierever 
such were known to exist. The English version of the Psalms here given, 
ha.s been constructed by a comparison of the authorized Douay text, (to 
whicli, in substance, it adheres.) with the several other veisuons which, 
from time to time, have been sanctioned for the purpose of devotion. The 
Indulgence Prayers have been literally translated from the Pacolta. Bou- 
viers Treatise on Indnlgences. and the last edition of the Cccleste Palrr»e- 
tum. The particulars connected with liie Confraternities, &c.. to which 
indnlgences are attached, have been careiuiiy collected from authorized 
sources, and published with the approbation ofhis Eminence, t aidinal 
Wiseman. The present edition has lieen enlarged with nnmeron.s Iransla 
lions from the Eiench and Italian, and selections of prayers in general use 
in this country ; together with the complete offices of the Blessed Virgin, 
and the Gospels and Collects throughout the year, and explanations of all 
the festivals of the year. 

The Way to Heaven. A Select Manual of Prayers for 
every day use. Compiled from approved sources. With the approha 
tioii of the Most Rev JOHN HUGHES, D. D , Archbishop of New York 
Illustrated with splendid steel plates. 18mo., 700 pages, fine paper. Boaw 
antique edges, 5 plates, $1 00. Roan, gilt edges, 5 plates, $1 25. Kng 
lish morocco, gilt edges, 5 plates, $1 50 Turkey morocco extra, 5 plates, 
$2 25. Turkey moiocco, hevo.Ued, nine plates, $2 75. ; Bevelled, clas|)«, 
$3 6.3 ; Velvet, from $6 to $12. 

The Garden of the Soul. A Manual of Fervent Prayers, 
Pious Reflections, and Solid Instructions, calculated to answer the use of 
the members of all ranks and conditions of Holy Catholic Church ; to 
whicli is prefixed an Historical Explanation of the Ve*:tments, Ceremo- 
nies, etc., appertaining to the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, Bv the ^ 


CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BOOKS. 


1? 


Rev. Dr. England, late Btshop of Charleston; with a great many otlm 
valuable additions, under the care of an eininertt divine of New York 
Large l8mo., 550 pages. Sheep, neat, 50c. Uoan. gilt edges, 75c. Ilo&i 
lull gilt. $l 00 Uoan, full gilt, clasps, $1 25. English morocco, 25 
Morocco extra $*2 00 Morocco extra, clasps, $2 50. Bevelled, flexible 
$2 50. Bevelled, flexible, clasps, $3 00. ^ 

The Key of Heaven. Greatly enlarged and improved 
with the Stations of the Cros.s, Large 24mo. Cloth extra. 2 plates, 310 
Roan, embossed, -2 plates, 38c. Roan, gilt sides. 4 ])late.s, 60c. Roan 
gilt edges, 4 plates, 63c. Imitation morocco, firll gilt, 6 plates, 76c, 
Imitation morocco, full gilt, clasps. 6 plates, 8Sc. Morocco extrn, 8 plates, 
$1 50. Morocco extra, clasps, 8 plates. $*2 25. Morocco extra, bevelled, 3 
plates, $l 75. Morocco extra, bevelled, clasps. 8 plates. $2 50. VelvtU, 
corners, clasps, 9 plates, cases, $5 00. Velvet, corneis. fine, clasps, 5 
plates, cases, $6 00. 

The Path to Paradise. 32mo., (large edition,) with 12 

fine steel engravings. Cloth extra, I plate, 25c. Imitation morocco, 4 
plates, 37c. Imitation morocco, gilt, 4 plates, 50c. Imitattion morocco 
gilt edges, clasps, 63c. 

Pine Papeu 

Morocco, super, extra, C plates, $1 25. Morocco, super, extra, clasps, 
6 plates, $2 00. Morocco, super extra, bevelled, 12 plates, $l 50. 
Morocco, super, extra, bevelled, cla.«p*?. $2 25. Velvet, clasps and cor- 
ners, cases, 12 plates, $4 00. Velvet, clasps, and corners, fine, cases, 12 
plates, $5 00. 

The Path to Paradise, (beautiful miniature edition,) 12 
fine steel engravings. Cloth extra, 1 plate, 20c. Roan, plain, 1 plate, 
2oc. R,oan, gilt, 4 plates, 39c. Roan, gilt, clasps, 4 plates, 50c. Roan, 
full gilt, 50c. Morocco extra, 6 phUes, $1 00. Morocco extra, clasps, 6 
plates, $1 60. Velvet, very fine, cases, 12 plates, $4 00. 

Gate of Heaven ; or, Way of the Child of Mary. A Manual 
of Prayers and Instructions, compiled from approved sources, for the 
- use of Young Persons. Illustrated with 40 plates. 320 pages, 32mo. 
Fine paper, cloth extra, 20c. Roan, 32c. Roan, gilt, 3Sc. Roan, full 
gilt, 50c. Clasps, 63c. 

Pocket Manual, (a very neat Pocket Prayer Book,) with 

steel engravings. 48mo. Turkey morocco, gilt edges, 60c. (In tucks,) 
dSc. Imitation turkey, gilt edges, Sic. Embossed, gilt, 25c. Cloth 
extra, 13c. 

Joumee du Oretien. A very fine French Prayer Book, 

containing 630 pages, fine steel engravings. 24mo. With the approha. 
tion of the Rt. Rev. Ignatius Botirges, D. D , Bishop of Montreal. C. E. 
Cloth extra, I plate, 32c. Roan, plain, 1 plate. 37c. Imitation, full gilt, 
4 plates, 63c. .Morocco extra. 10 plates, $l 50 Morocco extra, clasps, 
10 plates, $2 00. Velvet, finely mounted cases, $4 00 Velvet, finely 
mounted medallion, $5 00. 

Paroissien Petits Enfants Pieux. A beautiful French 
Prayer Book. Cloth extra, 13c. Roan, gilt, 1 plate, 25c. Cloth, full 
gilt, 1 plate, 25c. Imitation, gilt, 1 plate, 32c. Morocco, extra. 1 plate, 50c. 


12 


D. AND J. SADLIER AND CO.’S 


History of Ireland, Ancient and Modern, taken from the 
most authentic records, and dedicated to the Irish Brigade, by the Abbe 
MacGeoghegan. . Translated from the French, by Patrick O’Kelly, Esq., 
with 4 fine steel engravings. Cloth extra, $2 25. Half roan, extra, $2 
60. Half turkey, cloth sides, $3 00. Imitation, full gilt, $4 00. Mo- 
rocco extra, $5 00. 

“Ho is graphic, easy, and Irish. He is not a bigot, but apparently a 

f genuine Catholic. His information as to the number of troops and othai 
acts of our Irish battles, is superior to any other historian, and they wh# 
know it well need not blush, as most Irishmen must now, at their igno 
fance of Irish history.” — Thomas Davis, Essay on Irish History. 

Ecclesiastical Annals of the Irish Church. Subjects 

treated in the work. St. Patrick’s Birth and Mission, &c. The succes- 
sion of the Irish Hierarchy from the era of Ireland’s conversion to the 
present time. The Saints and Missionaries of Ireland — Monasteries ot 
each County — their founders. Ravages of the Danes. Plunder of the 
Irish Church. Persecution of Ireland. The Martyred Prelates and 
Priests of Ireland. The Apostates, &c. Enactments of Elizabeth, James, 
Cromwell, &c., against the Catholics. Calumnies of Protestant writers 
on the early Irish Church, refuted. Those annals have been compiled 
by the Rev. Thomas Walsh. In one volume, 850 pages, royal 8vo. H 
lustrated with thirteen splendid engravings. Cloth extra, $3 00. 

The Rise and Pall of the Irish Nation, by Sir Josiah 
Barrington, late Member of the Irish Parliament for the cities of Tuam 
and Clogher. It contains 29 portraits of celebrated men who figured in 
the Irish Parliament. Cloth extra, gilt back, $1 60. Cloth extra, gilt 
edges, $150. 

“ ‘ The Rise and fall of the Irish Nation,’ is one of the most picturesque 
and eloquent books in the whole range of our language. Its sketches of 
political scenes and characters, are, without comparison, the most life-like 
we know. It is a treasure of a book ; one we would not exchange for any 
ten National books we have.” — American Celt. 

Valentine McOlutchy, the Irish Agent; by Carleton. 

3 vols. of the Dublin edition in one. Cloth extra, 7oc. Half bound, 60c 

(flj- In this work Mr. Carleton has depicted the wrongs and sufTeringi 
Df his countrymen — their patience and forbearance under their sufferings ; 
ind in the character of Valentine McClutchy, lie shows the villany prac- 
tised, by the agents of absentee landlords, upon those tenants who are so 
unfortunate as to hold lands from them ; and as a specimen of a religious 
attorney, we would challenge creation to prodcce a more correct picture 
than that drawn by Carleton, of Solomon MeShine. We venture to say 
that there is not an Irishman who would read ten pages of the work, that 
would be without it for ten times the cost. 

The Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Moore, a« 

corrected by himself in 1843. To which is added an Original Memoir by 
M. Balmanno. 

In this edition the names which for personal and political consider- 
ations were left blank, are now for the first time filled up, rendering the 
obscure passages perfectlv intelligible. 1 vol , royal Svo., 800 pages. Il- 
lustrated with 7 splendid steel engravings. Cloth extra, $2 00. Imitation, 
marbled edges, $3 00. Imitation, full gilt, $4 00. Fine edition, printed on 
Butler’s paper, illustrated with 54 steel plates, morocco, super, extra, 
$0 00. Bevelled, $10 00. 


(7 









<^:<, ^ ■P' c- 

'^’ ^ ® «v 

^ oV -i . -r> -^y . 

c>>^'>V';^/<°’ c' 

> • '\#\ . , , %' " ■' " ” . ' • ^ /\ 

.V i f 'i 

,V .r>. . A. ° '•■ 



<* ^ 
, *v^ V 

. "b 0^ 



X 



\ 'A. v^' 

x.-^ ' . 

v\^>^ V ^ 

* 0 c* ^ 

. ^ <0' 

'^ { t, <. '''' ^ « ' ' « 

rO 

v^ -c 




a" 


r' - ” -1 

® % Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pi 

w Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxk 

' Treatment Date: 


•’'” v'''" 'i:^" > 
.X. ‘Sra 





JAN 

iBBK^EEP 




•’on V. '*' 


> 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGI 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412) 779-2111 

jt »• *' ^ O' - 





s' ^ ^ . 



» ' ^ “ v"^’ ^00, '<^ " 0 N 0 


<* * 0 

,0^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
<1^ ^ 


'% ^‘^■ 


. / “V '• 

V ^ r^ ✓ 

''J 

> .. 0 N c „ 






0 « X 


^ <1 


-A V 


(nN 0 n c z, ■'^ r * * 

j-^ 

V 


'V /- 

** 

rs^ « V • 





,p' * 


^ o' 


N 


L \ ^ J 



P v"! 

^ ^ V 


V fl 


3 ^ 0 


^0• 





f;i^ v^ 






0 <• X "" ,V 


yv Kl r* 


^ l> <lf > 



